After the Rain
by KnightFury
Summary: Holmes is concerned when Watson fails to put in an appearance at breakfast after a night out in a London deluge. NO SLASH
1. Chapter 1

**_This is my first attempt at writing since Primary School, so please be kind. I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, so I'm just keeping it pretty simple. That might change, of course._**

Sherlock Holmes took his pipe from the mantelpiece and began to pace in front of the fire. The breakfast table was laid for himself and Watson, but the doctor had yet to come downstairs. He wondered if he should call up to his companion or leave him alone. Watson had not seemed himself the day before and so he had insisted that they venture out into a perfectly miserable night in order to enter into the world of good music. It had certainly done him good, but had it provided Watson with what he needed? Would it have been wiser to stay indoors? He stopped his pacing and listened carefully. There was not a sound from the room above.

"Watson?" he called loudly, keeping his tone cheerful. "Are you awake, old chap? Your breakfast is getting cold!"

There was still no movement but he thought that he might have heard a quiet groan. Without hesitation he raced up the stairs to his friend's room. "Watson? Are you quite well?" There was a weary sigh from within the room and he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The doctor looked up at him from beneath his covers, which he had clearly pulled up to shade his eyes from the dim light in the room. "I am only tired, Holmes."

"Are you sure, dear fellow?" he asked, dragging the only chair in the room closer to the bed.

Watson gave a barely noticeable nod and closed his eyes. "The rain woke me and then I could not return to sleep."

The sound of the heavily falling rain, coupled with the moaning wind, was particularly loud on the top floor of 221B Baker Street and Holmes nodded his understanding. "Perhaps you should have come downstairs to the sitting room, old chap. The settee might not be as inviting for you as your bed, but it is certainly quieter down there."

His friend merely gave another nod and remained quiet.

Holmes was taking everything in carefully. His friend was too still, much too quiet and the way that he seemed to be doing his utmost to protect his eyes from the small amount of light that managed to enter the room through the drawn curtains sent alarm bells ringing. "What is it, Watson? You seem more than tired."

The doctor moaned under his breath. "I don't know why I try; nothing gets past you. I only have a headache, Holmes."

"It must be a bad one, to keep you in bed like this," he remarked, studying his expression carefully. Then he remembered the conditions that he and his companion had been forced to endure while he had attempted to hail a cab. With a pang of guilt, he was reminded that his friend's leg became painful in inclement weather and realised that it was more than likely hurting him a great deal now. "Is your leg very painful, dear fellow?"

If Watson was annoyed by his lack of forethought he did not let it show. "A little Holmes, but after standing in the rain as we did last night it is not so very surprising."

Holmes tutted to himself and shook his head. "You should have declined, Watson! I would have understood if you had reminded me how badly the cold and wet can affect your injured leg."

The doctor seemed to shiver slightly under his covers. "I enjoyed the performance, Holmes. I was glad that I had accompanied you."

"And this morning...?" he prompted quietly.

"This morning I would like to sleep."

The consulting detective raised his eyebrows. Watson's voice had remained quiet but that last sentence had been uncharacteristically sharp in tone. "Are you too tired to eat then? Breakfast awaits."

This time the shiver that rippled through his friend could not be missed and he jumped to his feet.

"Are you cold, Watson? Should I tend to the fire?" he was already crouching in front of the hearth without waiting for a reply. He removed the ash from the grate and began to add fresh coal to that which had not burned the night before, his back turned to the doctor. He almost jumped a foot when Watson gave a violent sneeze without any warning.

"Excuse me," he mumbled, sniffing.

Holmes frowned and returned to his bedside to hand over his handkerchief. "You have a cold," he noted. "I should never have dragged you out last night."

The doctor took the handkerchief and blew his nose. "Nonsense! I sneezed because there is ash and dust floating about in this room."

"I think that you are the one talking nonsense, dear fellow," the detective told him. "You are pale, shivering, in obvious discomfort and..." he paused while his companion gave another loud sneeze. "...and sneezing. Thank you for illustrating my point so beautifully, by the way. No Watson, your arguments just do not have any weight to them."

Watson groaned and gave a particularly violent shiver. "I did not think that you would be as perceptive with illness, seeing as that is hardly your field."

"Perhaps I would not, normally," Holmes admitted as he returned to the chair beside the bed. "But I know you well and I am bound to notice a change in you, old chap. In any case, if I am able to recognise when you are nigh exhausted it is surely not so surprising that I can see when you are ill."

This was a good point and he knew that his companion had to admit as much, for the consulting detective had always been able to tell by looking at him when he was done up and would often help him to sleep with the aid of his trusty violin. His behaviour this morning was not as surprising as someone who did not know him as well as Watson did might expect.

"You are right, of course."

"Of course. Frankly dear fellow, you are my friend and I do not like to stand idle while you are unwell," he said solemnly. "Now, is there anything that I can do for you? Apart from fetching the breakfast things up from downstairs, obviously."

Watson shook his head and reached in the general direction of his dressing gown. "I am not going to allow you to wait on me, Holmes. I shall eat my breakfast downstairs."

"Splendid," he replied with a small smile as he handed him the dressing gown and prepared to assist him if it was required. He was not at all sure that this sudden decision was no more than an attempted brave front meant to keep him from worrying.


	2. Chapter 2

_**I've made a few corrections. It seems that writing and uploading from my phone is a tad problematic.**_

Watson sat up gingerly and slid his feet onto the floor. He was trembling and seemed to pale further still.

Holmes seated himself on the bed at his side and rested a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Are you quite sure about this?"

"Give me a moment," he muttered, raising a hand to his head and leaning forward.

"Of course old chap. I shall give you all the time that you need," the detective replied in what he hoped to be a reassuring tone. He was becoming increasingly concerned and with it frustrated, for Watson would know what to do if the roles were reversed instinctively. He quickly fetched his friend's slippers and put them on his feet. "You are like ice!"

The doctor slowly pulled on his dressing gown and then attempted to stand without a word.

"Wait!" Holmes commanded sharply before quickly slipping a supportive arm around his companion. "Allow me to at least take some weight off of your poor leg Watson. I feel particularly responsible for the amount of pain that it must be causing you."

He gave him a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Holmes. I... I think I might need it."

He cleared his throat and returned the smile with a quick twitch of his lips. "You set the pace Watson. I am in no hurry."

Getting downstairs was difficult for the doctor, even with help from Holmes. He was quite obviously dizzy and had to stop a number of times so as not to risk falling.

"Take your time dear fellow," the detective reminded him when he mumbled an apology in his ear. "You are doing remarkably well."

Watson gasped and clung to his shoulder as his eyelids fluttered. "I must confess that I shall be glad to sit down."

Holmes nodded. "I am hardly surprised. Come along, we shall set you on the settee with some blankets and then Mrs. Hudson can get you some tea."

Eventually the doctor was guided to the sofa and wrapped in all the blankets that his companion was able to lay his hands on. Only then was their housekeeper called upon to replace the by now rather cold and uninviting breakfast.

"I honestly doubt that I could find much appetite for breakfast, Holmes," the doctor admitted quietly while his companion waited for Mrs. Hudson to come to the door.

The detective turned and approached the sofa quickly to crouch in front of his friend. "You should feed a cold Watson. Surely you know that."

"Yes, I do. On the other hand..."

Holmes allowed his gaze to drift over the features of his ill companion, taking in every detail carefully. "Would you like to tell me what is wrong dear chap? I operate on facts and data and I am not a doctor. A list of symptoms at the very least would be helpful. Now, let me see... We have the shivering and sneezing, which would suggest a chill. However, we also have dizziness and I might also guess at nausea..."

Watson looked crestfallen but nodded. "You are right, Holmes. I think the nausea is from exertion because it does seem to be passing, but I most certainly do not feel hungry."

"Due to that miserable headache that you first complained of, I take it."

He received another nod.

"Why the deuce did you insist on getting out of your bed? I could have kept you company upstairs quite easily!"

The doctor winced at his voice's subtle rise in volume. "It was far too noisy. You are right about the sitting room being so much quieter."

He considered this explanation and then nodded. "Very well, Watson. I do not suppose that I can say very much, as I am loath to stay in bed myself. Now... what can I do for you, my dear fellow? What would you suggest to a patient with your symptoms?"

Watson had the good grace to be shame-faced when he answered. "Most importantly to avoid exertion," he admitted.

"Hum!"

"But also to drink plenty of water and to eat lightly when hungry."

Holmes nodded. "Perhaps I should request a tin of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits to tempt you with, in that case. Could you manage some, do you think?"

The door opened at that moment and the voice of their housekeeper began to scold. "Look at this! You've not touched a thing!"

The detective stood quickly and strode to her side, taking her by the arm and marching her back out, tray and all. "Watson is ill," he explained quietly as he shut the door behind them. "I was forced to allow my own breakfast to get cold while I tended to him and I am sorry to say that he has very little appetite this morning."

"The poor man!" she exclaimed sympathetically. "Is there anything that I can get for him?"

"Plenty of water would be the most important thing," he told her. "He also might appreciate some of those biscuits of yours. They might just encourage his appetite."

She nodded and turned toward the stairs. "Oh!" she stopped and turned back to face the detective. "What can I get for you, Mr. Holmes? You shall want more than water and biscuits, I should think."

He waved his hand dismissively, finding that his concern for his ill companion had rather diminished his own appetite. "I shall just have some toast and a pot of tea."

Mrs. Hudson tutted and shook her head. "You should have more than that, Mr. Holmes. Caring for an ill friend is hard work and it would do no good for you to make yourself ill as well. I shall make you a hearty breakfast and you had better eat it."

Holmes smiled at her, doing his utmost to follow Watson's example of diplomacy. "I shall do my very best, Mrs. Hudson. It seems that I should bow to your good sense on this matter."

She chuckled to herself as she retreated downstairs but gave no reply.

The detective grimaced to himself and quickly returned to his companion's side. He found that Watson had pulled his blankets up around his ears once more and had his eyes tightly shut.

"Holmes?"

He touched his shoulder lightly. "I am here, dear fellow. What do you need?"

The doctor forced his eyes open to stare at him. "You should keep your distance."

"I should think it rather too late for that. You were beginning to succumb yesterday and we were together for the whole time. In any case, I am not about to abandon you now!"

Watson smiled tiredly. "And to think that some refer to you as being heartless..."

"I prefer it that way," he replied. "If I have no heart, I have no weakness for an enemy to use to his advantage. But we should not discuss this now. You should rest if you can."

His companion wiped at his nose and forced a slight nod.

"There is one thing that you could tell me," Holmes said quietly. "If a patient came to you with your symptoms, what would your diagnosis be? This seems somewhat severe for a mere cold."

"Influenza... Or la grippe, if you prefer."

He tried to smile as he attempted a joke. "Given the choice, I would prefer for it to be a common cold, Watson. At least that would be less uncomfortable for you."

Watson tried to chuckle but instead began to cough. "I think I must agree with you there. I am sorry, Holmes. I could treat a cold myself."

He shook his head and held up his hand. "You have nothing to be sorry about. I shall also hear no talk of you treating yourself and not troubling me! You would do this much and more for me without hesitation and you know that perfectly well. I very much doubt that you would leave me to fend for myself, even if I did only have a chill."

This time the doctor's smile managed to reach his dull, watering eyes. "You are right, Holmes. But I am a doctor."

"Pooh!" he chuckled. "You treat me as a friend, not as a patient. That you have such knowledge of medicine is useful to you, but not the reason behind your actions."

He sighed and nodded wearily. "You are right, of course."

"Of course. I know my Boswell!" Holmes turned as a knock came at the door. "Do not come in! Wait out there. I am coming," he ran to the door and threw it open. "Mrs. Hudson, please do not step inside until further notice," he warned as he took the tray from the lady. "Watson thinks that he has influenza and if he is right it could be very dangerous for you."

She smiled at him. "It is good of you to think of me, Mr. Holmes, but I shall be quite all right. Besides which, you might need some assistance before long."

Holmes thanked her before retreating back inside to set down the laden tray, shutting the door behind him with a jerk of his foot. He found himself hoping that Watson's self-diagnosis was off the mark.


	3. Chapter 3

_**I seem to be on form - or at the very least inspired - today. Two chapters submitted! Just to let you know, if you read the last chapter as soon as it was submitted, I wrote and uploaded it on my Smartphone and that resulted in some typing errors that I missed and a few other problems. All is sorted now.**_

Watson was still and quiet save for the odd violent shiver when Holmes cast him an appraising glance. The detective frowned and poured some water into a glass before returning to his side.

"Can you sit up old chap?"

He tried but sank back against the cushions with a strangled gasp.

Holmes hastily set down the glass of water on the coffee table and supported the head and shoulders of his companion with his arm. "Allow me to help, Watson. Lift yourself slowly."

The doctor complied carefully, leaning against the arm of his friend with obvious weakness and fatigue.

"Here," Holmes took the glass and brought it to his lips. "Drink what you can dear fellow."

He emptied the glass in a series of tiny, tentative sips.

"How is the nausea?" the detective asked him, deducing that he was drinking slowly to avoid upsetting his already rather out of sorts stomach.

"Better, thank you."

"But still warning you to be careful."

The doctor gave a slight nod and then gazed up at him. "Which might pose a problem..."

Holmes straightened slightly and frowned back at him questioningly. "Why would there be a problem? I hope that you are not about to insist that you should like to go back to bed after all."

"No, no," he shook his head and looked embarrassed. "But I have not visited the bathroom since I brushed my teeth last night."

The detective only just kept his shoulders from sagging with his frustration. "Can it wait?"

Watson stared at him. "Must I answer that?"

"Look old chap, the truth of the matter is..."

He shook his head and interrupted hastily. "Holmes, surely I should not have to explain that by this time I have become somewhat uncomfortable. Granted, I could probably wait if I was required to, but coughing and sneezing can put rather a lot of added pressure on the abdomen and..." he trailed off, clearly embarrassed at having to explain such things to his companion, and shifted under the blankets with a poorly-concealed grimace.

"I am sorry, Watson," he told him quietly, feeling guilty for having even suggested it. "You are right of course. I just did not relish the thought of you tiring yourself further."

The doctor gave him a small smile. "All the more reason to get it over with now, so that I am not in a hurry later," he remarked wisely.

Holmes could not help wondering what his companion defined as "in a hurry", but he simply nodded and gently squeezed the shoulder that his long fingers were still curled around. "Would you allow me to carry you? It would be faster and much less strenuous for you."

Watson closed his eyes and raised a hand to the bridge of his nose. "What the deuce have I become?" he asked himself quietly.

The consulting detective was not sure that he had been supposed to hear him, but as he still had his arm around his companion he was certainly close enough to discern his words. "There is nothing for you to be ashamed of Watson. You are ill and extremely tired. Most likely due to chasing me about London. Now, allow me to at least try to make amends."

It was truly amazing just how compliant the doctor became when Holmes spoke of guilt. When he was able to use his debilitating weakness and fatigue, which he clearly found mortifying, to somehow help his companion to feel better he seemed to calm himself immediately. This was a useful thing to remember.

"Up you come, old chap," Holmes said calmly as he lifted his friend into his arms. "Will you be all right if I set you down and step outside? I know that you would most certainly prefer that, but I hardly want you to fall and hurt yourself."

Watson grimaced. "I am not sure whether I could manage with an audience."

The detective smiled at him as he carefully chose the correct words to say. "I shall not watch you old chap. I would not enjoy such an invasion of my own privacy and I am certainly not about to treat you so disgracefully. I would only stand at your side and ensure that you remain upright," he cast him a quick glance. "Unless you would prefer to sit. I should think that your leg would thank you for it."

"Yes... it probably would."

Holmes turned his back to the bathroom door and stepped inside backwards so as not to run the risk of using his ill companion to nudge the obstruction aside. "Right old chap, I shall set you down a moment so that you can prepare yourself and decide upon whether you could manage to stand or not. I am here to offer support and nothing more."

Even with a supportive arm about his shoulders, Watson swayed on his feet. All the same, he did not decide that he should sit and instead leant heavily on his companion while he relieved himself.

For his part, the detective kept his eyes on the wall directly before them and concentrated on the rain that lashed the small window above the washbasin. He did not utter a word until Watson announced that he should now like to wash his hands.

~SH~

"Thank you," the doctor whispered when he was back on the sofa with his friend quickly replacing the blankets over him. He fidgeted in an attempt to find the most comfortable position to sleep in.

Holmes touched his arm. "Not at all dear fellow. I am glad to help."

Watson looked up at him. "You should eat Holmes. You do not want to incur the wrath of Mrs. Hudson."

He laughed quietly and stood, only to fetch over the breakfast tray and sit down with it in his armchair.

"Holmes..." the doctor began, obviously about to protest.

"I am eating Watson," he retorted as he turned to his companion with a small smile, raising his finger for silence. "I am also watching over you. This, I believe, is exactly what you would do had it been I who had fallen victim to the infernal illness. No old chap, do not protest. Concentrate your efforts on becoming well again and leave the rest to me."

He nodded wearily and his eyes closed in a slow blink. "At least you are sitting down," he remarked with a yawn.

"Exactly dear fellow. I am resting and you should do the same. Do not trouble yourself about me for I am quite well."

Watson's eyes had drooped shut, but he opened them again to regard his companion with misgiving.

"None of that dear fellow. Worrying about me will hardly keep me from falling ill. Quite the contrary in fact. You would only succeed in making yourself worse and I can assure you that that would do me no good at all."

~SH~

Once the detective had ate his fill he turned his full attention back to his companion, who still seemed to be struggling to get comfortable. "What is it old chap?"

"I am aching," he admitted wearily.

"Is it your leg?"

The doctor groaned quietly and opened his dull eyes to gaze back at him. "It is every part of me, Holmes. My back, my neck, my limbs..." he shivered violently, which sent his companion to pile more coal upon the fire and to set about it viciously with the poker.

"Would you like some more water?"

He grimaced. "I probably should."

"Then have some for Heaven's sake!" Holmes grumbled as he filled the glass with water. "Watson, you have to talk to me and ask me for things you know. I may be perceptive but I am not yet able to read minds."

He smiled at him, though it far from touched his eyes. "I should think that the criminals of this world are immensely glad of that. You are quite formidable enough, where they are concerned."

Holmes smiled at the remark and helped him to sit up, keeping his arm around his companion as before. "Behave yourself and drink old fellow. You are fast exhausting yourself."

Watson took two tentative sips and then leant back and turned his head.

"What are you doing?" the detective scolded. "I might have poured it over you!"

His breath hitched and he hastily raised the handkerchief that Holmes had given to him earlier to his face. He would have knocked the glass from his companion's hand for certain if he were less perceptive or had slower reflexes.

As it was, Holmes set the glass aside and gently rested his now free hand upon his quaking shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Uh..." he gave two violent sneezes and then sank back against the supporting arm that still rested behind his shoulders as if the action had drained what was left of his strength. "I am sorry," he mumbled behind the handkerchief.

"It is quite all right old fellow. I am sorry that I spoke to you so roughly. I should have realised what was wrong."

He blew his nose and grimaced. "I can try again now."

Holmes nodded and proceeded to help him to finish the water without another word.

"Thank you," Watson said quietly as he tried to settle once more.

"You are most welcome," he assured him. "Now... would a few notes from my violin ease you into slumber, do you think?"

The doctor seemed to consider the question for a while. "Well, I am already unable to sleep," he said at last rather slowly, as if he were trying to answer a difficult riddle. "And your music is usually so very soothing."

"If your head rebels at it tell me," Holmes instructed as he retrieved his treasured musical instrument. "I want to help you to get well and not to torture you."

Watson smiled and closed his eyes as the gentle sound of the violin filled the rooms of 221B Baker Street. In no time at all he was in a deep sleep.

The consulting detective continued to play long after the first snores began to accompany his melodies. At last he felt as soothed as his companion clearly was and sank into his armchair, thrusting the violin down beside him. He ran a hand over his face and stifled a yawn. "Thank Heaven," he murmured as he watched his companion rest.


	4. Chapter 4

_**I just wasn't very happy with this part so I edited it. I hope that it's greatly improved as a result of my tweaks.**_

Daylight was beginning to fade when Holmes awoke shivering. The fire had died quite some time ago by all appearances and he cast a glance at the clock. It was almost three! He rubbed sleep from his eyes and quickly tended to the fire, cursing himself for giving in to tiredness when his companion needed him to be alert. As soon as the detective had restored the fire to its former glory he put the poker down and turned his attention to the doctor. Watson was still sleeping on the sofa with his blankets wrapped around him, but he could hear that his breathing had become somewhat laboured. Holmes approached the sofa quietly and removed the pillows under his companion's head. Carefully, ensuring that Watson's head and shoulders were supported and that the doctor was kept in a sitting position, he sat down in the place of the pillows and then set them onto his lap before replacing his friend's head on the pillows. This seemed to work wonders for his companion's breathing and he smiled to himself. His companion seemed to relax at the contact and settle into a much more restful sleep.

Watson awoke suddenly and pulled himself upright before he had even opened his eyes.

Holmes had taken the opportunity to rest his eyes but he was immediately alert. "Steady on old fellow," he said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

The doctor was shuddering rather violently under his touch. He brought a hand to his face in order to clamp it over his mouth and moaned.

"Hold on, Watson!" he leapt to his feet and quickly fetched a bowl, wondering why he had not ensured that he had one close to hand when his companion had first admitted to feeling nauseous.

The doctor took the bowl in his hands and leaned over it while Holmes knelt at his side and did his best to comfort him.

As the bout of vomiting came to a stop the detective poured some water into a glass and handed it to his friend. "All right old chap, have some water."

Watson rinsed his mouth into the bowl thoroughly before taking some tentative sips. "I am sorry, Holmes..."

He tutted. "That is quite enough of that old fellow. You did well to hold on in the way that you did."

The doctor nodded and took another sip.

Holmes touched his arm and then went to fetch a bucket. When he returned, he set the bucket down so that it was positioned in a place in which his companion could easily roll over in order to make use of it. "So that you can stay down my dear fellow."

He thanked him quietly and settled back as Holmes took the bowl from him and replaced the pillows against the arm of the sofa. "Was I on your lap?" he asked, gazing up at the detective with confusion.

He gave him a small smile. "Your head was in my lap. You seemed to be finding it difficult to breathe and I thought that it might help."

"I think it did," Watson said tiredly.

"Then let me clean this bowl and then I shall try it again," Holmes told him.

~SH~

The consulting detective had just stepped out of the bathroom when there was a knock at the door. He set down the bowl and answered the door abruptly. "Yes?"

Mrs. Hudson looked up at him with concern. "Is everything all right, Mr. Holmes? I could hear a lot of running about."

He cast a glance in the direction of the sofa. "Watson was sick."

"Oh God," she closed her eyes. "Where?"

"Into a bowl of course. I am capable of tending to my best friend!" he snapped. "I have already cleaned it up, so as not to allow him to upset himself about it."

She smiled and nodded before looking up at him. "And are you all right?"

"Me?" he asked in surprise. "Of course I am! After all, I am not the one who is ill!"

"No, of course not," she replied quietly. "You just seemed a bit worried."

He frowned at her. "I would have thought that I had every reason to be, Mrs. Hudson."

"Well yes... of course."

Holmes was growing impatient. He wanted her to go and leave him to care for his companion in peace. He remembered the breakfast tray and retrieved it hurriedly. "Ah! I seem to have neglected to return this. My apologies. Perhaps you could take it now and send up some tea? I am rather thirsty. Watson could probably do with some fresh water as well. The jug is almost empty, I noticed."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. When will you be wanting your dinner?"

"When I ring for it," he snapped, not wanting to think about food at that particular moment. Sherlock Holmes was far from a squeamish man and had seen much worse than vomit in the course of his career, but somehow seeing Watson being physically sick had turned his stomach.

"Right you are, Mr. Holmes. I shall just send you up a pot of tea and another jug of water."

"Thank you," he said rather brusquely as he shut the door.

~SH~

Watson looked up at his companion as he returned to the sofa with the bowl and set it down. "I am sorry about that, Holmes."

"There is no reason at all for you to be sorry my dear fellow," he assured him as he crouched beside the sofa. "You did remarkably well seeing as I was foolish enough to neglect to find a bowl sooner."

The doctor groaned. "I did not think that I would actually be sick."

"Neither did I. Please old chap, do not dwell on it," he gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

He nodded and settled back with a heavy sigh that sent him into a coughing fit.

Holmes quickly lifted him into a sitting position, fearing that the action might cause him to vomit again and not wanting him to choke. "Try to calm yourself old chap."

He gave one final cough. "Water."

"Of course!" the detective quickly poured the remainder of the water into his glass and helped him to drink. "I think you should have some brandy once your stomach has settled enough. For how long does the sickness usually last?"

Watson licked his dry lips. "Not for very long. One of my patients suffered with it for three days, but he had not been in the best health before he succumbed and had a history of stomach upsets. I hope it shall be over by tomorrow."

"Yes and so do I," Holmes told him emphatically. "I do not like to see you in such discomfort."

He smiled at him. "You have a much better bedside manner than I would have imagined, you know."

He shook his head. "I am not sure dear fellow. I have not once heard you tell me how you feel about the things that I have done to myself. You have never made any of my pains or troubles about you."

"I am a doctor," he reminded his companion calmly before taking another sip of water. "It would not be professional to do so. You, on the other hand, are a detective and not a doctor."

Holmes frowned at him. "And I am very selfish by nature."

"I did not say that."

He smiled fondly at him. "No. That would not be in your character."

"Holmes," the doctor groaned tiredly. "You are not behaving selfishly. You have been tending to me and watching over me since you found me ill in bed this morning. You have gone well beyond the extra mile you know."

"By giving you water and helping you to sleep?"

Watson grimaced. "You helped me downstairs and made me comfortable on the sofa, carried me into the bathroom..."

"You would do the same I am sure."

"I would if I were able," the doctor replied, grimacing at the thought of having to carry the detective for any distance. "I doubt that I could with my injured leg."

The detective smiled at him. "I know you well enough to be certain that you would at least try."

He nodded and sipped at the water that his companion was still holding for him. "Yes, I have to admit that I would."

Holmes chuckled quietly. "As I said earlier, I know my Boswell."

"Too well, it seems."

He chuckled again before becoming serious. "Now Watson, I would like you to try to finish this water if it is not too much trouble. Then I shall make you comfortable and allow you to go back to sleep."

Watson drank down what remained of the water and watched his companion replace the glass upon the table.

"Should I wake you every hour or so to have another drink?" the detective asked as he retrieved the violin from his armchair. He did not voice his concerns, but he thought that perhaps his companion had been sick due to a dry throat or even dehydration because he had not had very much to drink and had then fallen asleep for quite some time.

"It might be a good idea," he admitted.

Holmes crouched beside the sofa once more. "Are you quite comfortable old chap? I would not mind your using me as a pillow again, if it would be of help."

"What if I am sick?"

He touched his arm lightly. "I can assure you that I have seen much worse my dear fellow. A great deal worse."

"If you are sure, Holmes."

"I am, Watson. Come on, sit up for a moment," he helped him into an upright position and moved the pillows so that he could sit down, replacing them on his lap as before. This done, the doctor rested his head on the pillows and gazed up at him.

"Thank you. For being here... for everything."

"Not at all dear fellow," Holmes assured him brightly as he reached across him for the violin. "Now, you just settle back and relax. I will still be here when you wake."

His companion closed his eyes gratefully while Holmes began to play his violin.

The sound was clear and beautiful but had a rather sad note to it, which the detective did not even realise until a gentle hand slowly grasped the arm that held his musical instrument and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

The doctor smiled but spoke not a word and then he drifted into slumber.

Holmes smiled to himself as he cast his eyes down at his companion, feeling a warm glow touch his heart. "Dear old Watson."


	5. Chapter 5

**_Here we are - Chapter Five as promised. This one is quite a long one, compared with the others and I hope I haven't started waffling!_**

This time, Holmes did not fall asleep but kept a careful watch over his friend. Watson's breathing was still rasping, even though he was practically in a sitting position, and he had some difficulty breathing through his nose as well. His face was pale in the firelight and the detective could see beads of sweat on his forehead. The hand that still held his arm had a palm so hot that he could feel it through his sleeve while the fingers were quite cold. Holmes lightly touched his forehead and cringed at the heat that he felt.

There was a knock at the door but he did not attempt to call out or rise. He had no intention of waking the doctor. He listened in silence as the door opened and Mrs. Hudson entered.

"I brought you the tea and water, Mr. Holmes," she said quietly.

He turned his head. "Thank you," he acknowledged in little more than a whisper. "Please set the tray on the coffee table."

As their housekeeper approached she gazed with surprise at the doctor's position on his companion's lap.

"He is finding it difficult to breathe," Holmes said by way of explanation. "I could hardly leave him to struggle."

"Of course not," she smiled at him as she set down the tea things, including two cups and saucers, and a fresh jug of water and drinking glass. "I shall call back later to see if you need anything else, seeing as you won't want to disturb the good doctor."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he gave her a slight smile as she retrieved the empty jug and turned to go.

She paused and looked from Holmes to Watson and back again. "Is there anything else that you need now?"

The detective frowned and narrowed his eyes. "I should probably attempt to bring his fever down, but I am afraid that I might disturb him."

"Is he very hot?"

"Quite warm," he told her.

"Have you actually taken his temperature?" she asked with obviously forced patience.

"No."

She shook her head. "Have you got a thermometer?"

He gestured toward the ceiling. "In Watson's bag. It is locked."

"I shall bring one up from downstairs then," she told him.

"Thank you."

The housekeeper set the tray down beside the door and came back to pour Holmes a cup of tea. "I thought that you might not like to reach over the doctor, Mr. Holmes," she said quietly as she handed him the steaming cup and saucer.

"Very thoughtful," he remarked after taking a grateful sip. "Thank you."

"I shall bring up a bowl of water and a washcloth with the thermometer. I am sure the doctor will understand if you wake him."

He nodded and turned his attention to Watson as he coughed and rolled onto his side before becoming still once more.

"Mr. Holmes..."

He looked up into the concerned gaze of their housekeeper. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Take care of yourself as well."

He nodded and waved a hand dismissively. "I always do. Run along Mrs. Hudson."

~SH~

Holmes did not have to worry about waking his companion for long, as it turned out. He had just set down his empty teacup when Watson gave a violent sneeze and jerked awake, almost falling from the sofa.

"Steady old fellow," the detective said gently as he quickly grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away from the edge. "Are you all right?"

The doctor nodded and sniffed. "How long was I asleep?" he asked with a heavily congested voice.

"Almost half an hour," he shook his head. "I would have preferred you to have slept longer, but it cannot be helped. How do you feel?"

He rolled onto his back to meet his friend's gaze. "Still very tired."

"You look it old chap," Holmes told him, squeezing his arm gently. "But how is the headache and nausea?"

He grimaced. "The nausea seems to be subsiding, thank Heaven. The headache is still persistent."

"Most likely due to the congestion and fatigue," Holmes noted. "Is there anything that I can do for you to make your recovery any faster?"

He chuckled and then started to cough again. He gasped and shook his head. "Very little can be done, Holmes. La Grippe is quite a severe illness and all that we can do is allow it to take its course. There is no such thing as a miracle cure."

"Damn," the detective drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa and shook his head. "All the advances in science and I cannot use it to help my friend!" he muttered with frustration.

"Holmes," Watson squeezed the hand that was within his reach. "Perhaps you should consider how I feel old boy. I am a..." he began to cough anew, "...doctor and yet there are many illnesses... that I can only treat with a drop of... of brandy and orders of bed rest. If you feel frustrated, do you not think that perhaps I often do as well?"

He nodded and gave his companion an apologetic smile. "I am sorry dear fellow. I just..." he shook his head, frantically rephrasing his chosen words before he uttered them. "I am beginning to wonder whether I am actually doing you any good at all."

"Of course you are!" the doctor wheezed vehemently.

Holmes gazed back at him for a long moment as he searched for something to say. He felt ashamed of himself for allowing his companion to witness his growing impatience and frustration. He wanted desperately to know how long the symptoms of La Grippe could last, but he was hardly going to make Watson think that he expected him back on his feet and ready to assist him tomorrow. "Would you like a drink?" he asked him instead. "Perhaps I could add something to the water this time. Honey perhaps. I still am not sure whether I should give you any spirits."

"Honey sounds like a good idea," he said with a tired smile. "It might help my throat."

"And provide you with something a little more substantial. You cannot continue to consume nothing but water."

Watson nodded tiredly. "I probably am hungry... but I am a little worried that I might make my stomach worse."

"Well," the detective got up carefully and moved him into a sitting position, rearranging his blankets to keep him from getting cold. "I shall get you a biscuit to experiment with. You do not have to eat it all, just see how you get on."

He nodded and watched as Holmes moved the biscuit tin to the coffee table and extracted one.

"Ah! Our housekeeper kindly baked your favourites for you. I rather hoped that she would."

"She is very kind," the doctor remarked as he took the offered biscuit from his companion. "You both are."

Holmes waved his hand. "Not at all old chap. I am simply returning some of the patience and kindness that you have been good enough to show to me. To the best of my ability, of course."

Watson smiled at him and took a small bite of the biscuit.

"I shall leave this within easy reach for you," the detective announced as he poured some water into his glass for him. "Will you be all right if I leave you while I seek out some honey?"

He swallowed and nodded. "I can manage alone for a few minutes. Heaven knows, I have had to manage entirely alone before now."

Holmes nodded and turned to leave. "As have I old fellow," he noted with just the slightest hint of sympathy.

~SH~

Mrs. Hudson jumped when the consulting detective cleared his throat directly behind her and whirled to face him.

"I do wish you would not do that, Mr. Holmes! You could have given me a heart attack!"

"Pooh, you should not exaggerate so," he remarked with a wave of his hand. He then gave her the hint of a smile. "My apologies. I thought that I had made enough noise for you to hear me come in."

"Your profession requires stealth sir. I doubt that you could make enough noise for me to hear you if you tried."

He arched an eyebrow. "Clearly not."

The housekeeper smoothed her hair with a sigh and handed him a cardboard box. "Here is the thermometer, Mr. Holmes. I am just waiting for the water to become lukewarm before I take it upstairs. Was there anything else?"

"Honey," he said. "I would have given Watson brandy, but I doubt that it would be a good idea at the moment. I seem to recall being given honeyed water when I was severely ill and thought that it might do some good."

She nodded. "You are probably right. It would most certainly be better than brandy," she took a jar and spoon from one of the cupboards and handed it to him. "You can keep this Mr. Holmes. I use honey for cooking, but I just bought another jar because this one won't last until the next shopping day. If Dr. Watson would prefer to eat this than the biscuits for now, he is welcome to finish it."

"Thank you," he smiled gratefully at her and headed for the door.

"Well, he shows such kindness and consideration to others that it would be a sin to treat him any differently."

He nodded but did not turn to look at her. "That is my thought exactly."

"I shall be up in a moment, Mr. Holmes. If there is anything else that I can do, please tell me."

He thanked her again and then took the stairs two at a time, ignoring her calls to be more careful.

~SH~

The detective smiled as he approached the sofa quickly, talking in a quiet but rapid manner. "Here we are old chap. This should do you some good. Once you have had some honey I should like to check your temperature, if you have no objection."

"Slow down please," Watson raised a hand to his aching head. "I cannot keep up, Holmes."

He stopped and regarded his companion with fresh concern. "Are you feeling worse?"

"No. At least..." the doctor groaned. "I am not sure."

"All right dear fellow," he took a seat beside him on the sofa and put an arm around him. "I am sorry."

His companion nodded but gave no vocal reply.

"Mrs. Hudson has told me that you can have as much of the honey as you like," he told him. "I think she intends for you to finish the jar for her."

Watson gave him a wan smile. "I should certainly like to try some honeyed water, please."

The detective nodded and added a teaspoonful of the very runny and sticky liquid to his glass of water, trying hard not to leave any traces of it on the table, and lickedhis fingers. "And I think I should finish the pot of tea before it gets too cold," he remarked as he handed him his drink. The tea was probably already cold, but he was not about to tell his friend as much.

The two settled into silence, broken only by the occasional cough or sneeze from Watson.

Holmes waited for his companion to finish his drink and then set down his half-finished teacup. He could drink no more of the cold, stewed beverage. "I think I should take your temperature old chap. I can see that you have a fever."

"The thermometer is in my bag," the doctor told him, trying to stand.

He grasped his shoulder quickly. "Stay seated, Watson. Mrs. Hudson had one that I can use."

The doctor tried to chuckle. "As long as it is not one that has been used for your chemistry experiments."

"I would not poison you!" Holmes gasped at him. "Watson! Do you think that I would be so thoughtless or stupid?"

He grimaced and shook his head. "I did not mean that. I am sorry. It was a joke... it was supposed to be, at any rate."

The detective chuckled quietly and squeezed his arm. "You had me worried. Come now old fellow, open up."

Watson permitted him to slip the thermometer under his tongue and moved over on the sofa to permit his companion to sit beside him.

The detective settled himself at his side and put his arm around him once more. It felt strange and perhaps awkward, for he had never been in the habit of behaving in such a manner, but it was not unpleasant. He smiled down at the doctor as he rested his head on his shoulder. "Are you comfortable?"

He received a slight nod in reply.

"Good," he turned his attention to the clock and quietly measured the time as it passed. Once the two minutes were up he took the thermometer and studied it. "Hum..."

Watson raised his eyes to meet his gaze. "Holmes?"

"Your fever is rather high old chap," he said calmly. "I shall have to try to bring it down."

At that moment the door opened and their housekeeper entered with the bowl and cloth.

"Perfect timing, Mrs. Hudson. Set it down here so that I can reach it, if you please."

"Right, Mr. Holmes."

"And would you have a hot water bottle? It might help to draw out the fever if we were to place one at his feet."

"Of course. Should I bring a stool over for you to put your feet up, Doctor?"

Watson nodded. "If you would, Mrs. Hudson. My leg is becoming quite stiff and sore."

"You should have said as much," his companion tutted with annoyance as the woman hastened to bring over the footstool and assist the doctor in putting up his feet.

"You were busy. You have been running around for me all day. You are going to wear yourself out old boy," he smiled at their housekeeper. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Pfft!" Holmes snorted as he wrung out the wash cloth that had been provided and gently applied it to his companion's brow. "Nonsense! Now, I have already told you that you should speak up if there is anything that I can do for you, have I not?"

He nodded tiredly. "Very well."

"Thank you," the detective dabbed away the beads of sweat on Watson's brow and continued to wipe at his flushed cheeks. "How does this feel?"

"Wonderful," he replied, closing his eyes gratefully. "It is soothing my head."

"Excellent," Holmes smiled. "We shall see this off together old chap."

Watson nodded and yawned into his hand. Moments later he was asleep again.


	6. Chapter 6

As the evening wore on, Holmes fell into a relentless routine. He would cool his companion's fevered brow with the lukewarm wash cloth while he slept and wake him at regular intervals to ensure that he stayed hydrated. He did his utmost to make the doctor comfortable and tended to the fire every so often to ensure that they both kept warm.

The wind had picked up as the day wore on and now the driving rain thudded against the windows as if the wild day were trying to break in. The detective shivered, though he was unsure whether the room's temperature had truly dropped or if it was merely the sound of the weather playing on his mind. He took a moment to give the fire another poke and add some more fuel to it. He realised that he was becoming tired when his vision blurred as he worked. With a shake of his head he banished the fatigue to the back of his mind and concentrated on the task of building up the fire.

"Holmes?" Even though the voice of his companion was little more than a whisper, the fear within it was easy to discern.

The detective leapt to his feet and hurried back to the sofa, thinking that the doctor had awoke to find the seat of the sofa empty beside him and believed himself to be deserted. Instead he found his companion in the throes of some kind of nightmare. He quickly sat beside him and pulled him close, holding him steady as his body shook with violent sobs. "I am here Watson. You are safe. You are quite safe. Come along old chap, wake up."

Eventually, he awoke with a jolt and looked about him in a dazed manner. Holmes hugged him closer to his chest in an attempt to calm him. "It was only a dream my dear fellow. Calm yourself."

His companion nodded and gasped for breath as he fought to quell the sobs that continued to wrack his body. He clung to the detective desperately, showing himself to still be terribly shaken. "Holmes..."

"I am here old chap. I would not leave you."

He nodded and coughed. "I am sorry. Just give me a moment," he whispered hoarsely.

Holmes frowned and rubbed at his back instinctively, no longer stopping to think about how he should react. "What was it that upset you so?"

"You..." the doctor shook his head violently, seemingly unable to voice his explanation.

He pulled away to allow himself to stare down at his friend as he waited for him to continue. "What did I do?"

Watson began to cough again and closed his eyes wearily. "Somebody attacked us. It was dark... I was too slow..."

Naturally, the doctor would not have been so frightened for his own life as he was for that of his friend. With a sigh Holmes pulled him closer so that he could be in no doubt that he was still very much alive. "You could never be too slow old chap. I know that I can rely on you without hesitation or any doubt. You and I when we work together are better than every Scotland Yarder put together!"

His companion choked on a sob and looked up at him. "It was just so real. The damp chill of the fog, the sounds..."

"Fever-induced dreams are usually terrifyingly realistic Watson. Please, try not to dwell on it. We are both safe indoors, as anyone with any sense would be on such a dreadful night as this. Calm yourself my dear fellow."

He nodded and closed his eyes gratefully. "I am sorry to have made such a fool of myself."

"You have not made a fool of yourself!" Holmes exploded vehemently.

"I have just awoke crying."

The detective drew a deep breath as he struggled to find the words to say. "There is no shame in crying," he said at last. "I am sure that you must know that. Then what is wrong? Are you ashamed that I have seen you in such a state?"

He lowered his gaze and looked away.

"But why?" he asked him. "You have seen my blackest of moods and not turned your back! I would not behave any differently, even if you had made a fool of yourself!"

Watson stared up into his eyes. "I know that you do not like tears."

"They make me uncomfortable. I tend to feel at a loss. Emotions are not my area," the words tumbled out as he did his utmost to explain. "I am left wondering what to do, that is all. It is not the act of crying that I despise, but feeling powerless to do anything about it."

The doctor swallowed awkwardly and nodded his understanding. "Yes, that does make sense."

Holmes shook his head. "Do you really doubt yourself Watson?" he asked carefully. "Was that dream simply the visualisation of one of your fears or is there more to it?"

"I suppose I have been worrying for a while about what might happen to you if I was not there, or if we overlooked a very real danger," his companion admitted quietly. "I would not say that I doubt myself exactly... but I do know that things can go wrong, however careful we may be."

He touched his arm. "Now, listen to me old chap. You must know as well as I do that we make a perfect partnership. You are courageous and dependable. I know that I can trust you with my life. But that is not enough Watson; you have to know it as well."

His companion nodded quietly.

"You do know that I would not rely on you if you were less than fit for the task?" he pressed him. When he did not reply he continued with his attempt to drive it home. "I could see when I first met you exactly the kind of man that you are. I knew that you could be trusted and relied upon. If that was not the case, I would not have discussed throwing in my lot with you here at Baker Street."

Watson was slowly growing calmer, though he was still trembling.

"How do you feel old chap?" the detective asked him gently.

He groaned.

"As bad as all that?"

"I do not think that the dream did me any good," he admitted quietly. "The nausea is returning."

"Then sit up and drink some water my dear fellow," Holmes instructed, watching him with increasing concern as he helped him to sit up against the back of the sofa. This done, he poured a small quantity of water into his glass and assisted him in taking some small sips. When the glass was finally empty, he ensured that both the bowl of water and the empty one were within easy reach and took his seat beside his companion.

The doctor sighed gratefully and rested his head against his shoulder.

He smiled down at his friend and touched his arm. "Are you feeling any better?"

"I think so Holmes. Thank you."

"Not at all Watson," he took the cloth from the bowl of water and began to cool his friend's face. "Rest now. I shall stay here beside you."

~SH~

The doctor was just returning to sleep when a relentless banging came at the front door. He groaned and opened his eyes with a grimace.

"Mrs. Hudson will tell our caller the situation," the detective told him with an idle gesture. "Do not concern yourself old chap."

"Supposing it is important? It is a terrible night to come out for anything trivial."

Holmes shook his head. "I am otherwise occupied dear fellow. I am hardly going to abandon you now in favour of a case."

"And if it is a matter of life or death?" his companion persisted.

He was about to reply when heavy footsteps sounded on the stair and the door opened. A rather wet Inspector Lestrade entered, closely followed by their housekeeper.

"I am so sorry Mr. Holmes, but he would not listen to me. He just pushed past me and stormed up here as if..."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," he interrupted. "I shall now talk with the inspector. Perhaps you could send up some tea?"

"Of course Mr. Holmes," she left again quickly, shutting the door behind her.

The detective turned his gaze on the inspector coldly. "What are you doing here Lestrade?"

He cleared his throat and removed his outer garments before taking a seat in Watson's armchair, which only infuriated the detective further. "Sorry to bother you, Mr. Holmes..."

"I can assure you that I am not the one that you have disturbed," he snapped quietly, nodding towards the pale man sitting beside him on the sofa. "It is Watson that should receive an apology. Did you give our housekeeper time to explain that he is unwell before you barged into our living room?"

The man before him winced under his gaze and averted his eyes. "She might have mentioned something about it."

Holmes drew a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. He was determined not to shout, if only for the doctor's benefit. "What was so important that it simply could not wait?" he demanded through clenched teeth.

"There has been a murder. An interesting one. I thought that you might like to take a look," he held his stare hopefully.

The detective placed a hand on the shoulder of his ill companion. "I am needed here Lestrade. I am sure that a man of your calibre can plainly see the condition that Watson is in. I would not like to leave him while he is so ill and I am hardly about to take him along with me."

"It is a great pity. I am sure it is just the sort of thing that you would normally jump at," the inspector remarked as he stood and took up his wet coat and hat.

Holmes tensed and glared at him. Lestrade was obviously trying to appeal to his love for the unusual and bizarre and he resented it. He was about to give a well-deserved curt reply when Mrs. Hudson returned with the tea things. He thanked her quickly and began to pour tea into two of the cups. "Would you like some tea, Watson?"

"No thank you, Holmes, but I would not say no to some more water."

He nodded. "Certainly old chap," he tended to his ill companion first before turning his attention back to the teas.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade acknowledged as he took the teacup from the detective. "Could your housekeeper not watch over the good doctor for half an hour?"

At these words he snapped. "I had been about to suggest that you give me the facts and permit me to work from home," he growled quietly. "But I have a good mind now to simply throw you out! Good evening Inspector."

Lestrade stared back at him for a long moment. "I could get you all the data that we have," he offered quickly, before taking a sip of the tea. "After all, you have a history of solving things with nothing but facts and guesswork."

"Deduction is not guesswork," he returned dangerously.

The inspector turned his gaze to Watson as if hoping for some kind of support.

Holmes narrowed his eyes at him as he finally lost what remained of his temper. To dare try to manipulate him was bad enough, but to appeal to Watson was a step too far! "Get out," he snapped curtly. "I suggest that, when you return, you make less noise and arrive at a more seemly hour. If you interfere with Watson's recovery again you shall regret it."

Lestrade set down the half-finished drink and left without another word.

Watson shook his head as the inspector's footsteps retreated downstairs. "He thought that you would have jumped at the case... or wanted to know more, at the very least."

"In different circumstances I would have," he replied. "But I might have been tempted to take a look after all, had I permitted him to give me the details. No old chap, I was not about to allow him to tempt me. If you had another of those awful dreams and found me gone it would most likely make you worse. I could not risk that."

The doctor looked away.

"In any case," Holmes added quickly, realising to his chagrin that he had touched a nerve. "I work better with you at my side. We shall go over the facts together when we have them."

Watson smiled at him. "I shall do my best."

"Naturally. You always do," he squeezed his shoulder gently. "But that is enough talk for now. Can I get you anything else before you try to sleep?"

He shook his head and finished the water. "I think I will be all right, Holmes. You have taken very good care of me."

"And I intend to continue to do so," he assured him as he settled at his side once more.

The doctor was still and quiet for a moment, but then he cleared his throat. "Will you be staying here all night?"

"Of course I will my dear fellow."

He unwound the blankets and offered one end of them to the man at his side.

"What are you doing Watson?" the detective asked him. "You should keep warm."

"So should you Holmes," he replied quietly. "You will have to sleep sooner or later and you are bound to get cold. I still stand by what I said earlier about not wanting you to fall ill."

He smiled at his companion and pulled the blankets around them both. This done, he permitted the doctor to rest his head on his shoulder. "Good rest Watson."

"Good night Holmes," he returned with a yawn.

The two men sat in companionable silence and watched the flames dance in the fireplace. They were soon fast asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

_**I really am sorry about the length of time I've taken with this one. It is the hardest chapter I've written so far and has just not gone right.**_

The room was dark and bitterly cold when Holmes awoke. He was also so thirsty that his throat burned, reminding him that he had not remembered to drink very much during the course of the day. He was about to search out a clean cup or glass to fill with water for himself when his companion shifted with a groan, causing him to stop dead. After a few moments the doctor moved again to rest his head on his shoulder. He was still much too hot, the detective noted with concern. He was about to resign himself to being forced to stay exactly as he was and forget about getting a drink when his friend gave another low moan and sat upright with difficulty.

"Oh...!" Watson rubbed at his head and eyes with shaking hands.

Holmes forgot his own discomfort instantly and rested a hand on the shoulder of his companion. "What is wrong dear fellow?"

He jumped at the light touch. He had obviously forgotten that his friend was beside him.

"Watson?" the detective pressed anxiously when he failed to give an answer.

His friend slowly turned to look him in the face with squinting eyes. "It is my head. My head and my eyes."

"Is the discomfort worse than before?"

He groaned and screwed his eyes tightly shut. "If that is possible."

Without another word he poured some water into the doctor's glass and handed it to him, feeling grateful to their housekeeper for the fresh water she had clearly left for them while they slept. "I shall assist you in a moment dear fellow," he told him as he snatched up the washcloth from the bowl of water that still stood beside him on the floor, wringing it out hastily before applying it to Watson's burning forehead.

"Thank you," the doctor's voice was so quiet and hoarse that he had to lean close to be able to hear him. "That does help."

Holmes patted his shoulder. "Good. Come on then, allow me to help you to drink old chap."

He complied without a word, leaning wearily on the supportive arm that was slipped behind him as he took slow, awkward sips.

"Has your nausea worsened?" the detective asked with concern.

His companion shook his head and swallowed tentatively. "No, that seems to be all but gone. It is my throat. It has been burning for a while, but now it catches painfully when I attempt to swallow."

"Wait there a moment then," he instructed, handing back the glass and carefully withdrawing his arm and settling the doctor against the back of the sofa in order to jump to his feet. He quickly found the softest of his warmest mufflers and brought it back to the sofa, wrapping it snugly around his friend's sore throat. "How is that dear fellow?"

He nodded gratefully. "It does feel a little better. Thank you."

"I only wish that I could do more for you," Holmes told him as he resumed his earlier task.

Watson frowned suddenly and looked up at him. "Are you all right old boy? Your voice sounds rather..." he closed his eyes and grimaced, clearly unable to find the description that best fitted what he had heard in the detective's voice.

"I am thirsty," he told him. "But I can wait until I have tended to you."

The doctor grimaced again before taking another tentative sip from the glass that was held to his lips. "Be careful not to get dehydrated. That would be much more serious than La Grippe and I am in no condition to tend to you."

"Watson, I shall be perfectly all right. Do not worry needlessly over me!"

He shook his head. "I cannot help it Holmes. I know that you do not always take care when you have something on your mind."

With a frustrated grunt the detective set down the glass and poured some water into the fresh one that Mrs. Hudson had thoughtfully provided along with the jug. He took a somewhat deliberately noisy gulp of the liquid to ensure that his companion was aware of the fact that he was drinking. "Can you calm yourself and rest assured now?"

"I am sorry Holmes. I only want you to bear in mind that I worry just as much about you as you do about me. Please just keep in mind that you shall do me no good at all if you make yourself ill."

He chuckled quietly and took another quick sip of his drink. "Point taken old chap. I shall try to care for us both."

"Thank you. Now I can rest assured," he opened his eyes to smile at him tiredly.

"Good. In that case, I shall help you to take some more water Watson," he sat beside him and slipped an arm around him as before. This done, he brought his companion's glass to his lips and waited patiently while he drank. He watched every poorly-concealed wince that flickered across the honest face of the man at his side and wished that he could do more for him. Was this what it felt like to be a doctor? How could Watson bear it?

"Thank you Holmes," his companion whispered when his glass was finally empty.

He set the glass down and took up his own. "Is there anything else that you need before I tend to the fire?"

"Sate your own thirst before you do anything else," he insisted. "The hearth and I can wait a moment."

"Hum. Very well dear chap," he gave his shoulder a careful squeeze, keeping the aches and pains that had been mentioned earlier in mind, as he drank from his own glass of water.

Watson settled back with the damp cloth resting above his eyes.

"Are you trying to sleep?"

He shook his head. "I am not sure that I can old chap. Not yet."

Holmes set down his empty glass. "What do you need, Watson?" he asked as he turned his attention to the fire.

There was a moment of silence before the doctor gave his quiet reply. "I think I shall have to pay a visit before I can return to sleep."

"Very well then," he said, giving the fire one more poke for good measure before returning to the sofa.

His companion gave him an apologetic grimace as he lifted him into his arms.

The detective merely squeezed his arm and remained quiet as he directed his steps in the direction of the bathroom, following the routine that had by now become well practiced since the morning before.

~SH~

Watson leant against the basin wearily as he washed his hands. "I shall be very glad when I can do this unassisted," he remarked quietly.

The detective frowned at him. "I am sorry that you are not comfortable with this arrangement, but it is the most logical thing that I can do under the circumstances."

His companion nodded. "I know that Holmes. I did not mean to seem ungrateful to you."

"Of course not dear fellow. I know you better than to think that of you for a moment."

He coughed violently and groaned, sagging slightly on his feet.

Holmes instantly had an arm around him. He handed him a towel and turned off the tap for him. "Come along old chap. We should get you back to the settee, where it is warmer."

The doctor nodded.

He carefully lifted him into his arms and held him close, for he was beginning to shiver. In no time at all, he had returned his companion to the sofa and covered him up. He took the hand towel from his grasp and set it on the arm of his chair with the intention of returning it to its place later.

"Did you manage to rest at all?" Watson asked him suddenly.

"I have had sufficient sleep," he assured him. "I can always catch up. You know well enough that I do not need as much sleep as you do."

His companion frowned. "Every human being requires sleep, Holmes. You might find it difficult to rest, but it is not because you have no need of it."

He quirked an eyebrow at him and returned to his side on the sofa. "I am perfectly all right."

"You need to be," the doctor said with a small smile. "Inspector Lestrade might call back today with his case notes."

"Harrumph! He had better keep what I told him last night well in mind," Holmes said with irritation. "The only reason that I did not raise my voice and throw him out with force is that it would have probably made your headache worse."

"I think you unnerved him all the more by keeping so quiet and still," his companion told him with some amusement.

He nodded. "I expect so. Ha! I should like to know what the man expected."

"You are heartless, remember?"

He stared back at his companion for a moment and then began to laugh quietly. "Yes, that might have something to do with it," he chuckled. "I suppose it was little wonder that he was so unnerved."

Watson smiled wanly. "You should have a care. You might ruin your reputation," he sniffed suddenly and plucked a clean handkerchief from the pile that his companion had placed at his side earlier.

"You are getting through those at quite a rate," the detective remarked, gathering up the discarded handkerchiefs with distaste and taking them through to his room to put them in with his dirty laundry. He returned in time to hear the doctor give two violent sneezes and a low moan. "Are you all right?"

Instead of answering he coughed and gave another moan.

"Watson? What is it?" he sat beside him quickly and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You are far too hot. Just a minute old fellow."

His companion gave a grateful gasp as the cooling cloth was dampened and returned to his forehead.

"Try to rest dear chap. I shall be right here if you need me."

He gave the slightest of nods. "What time is it Holmes?"

"It is almost five in the morning."

"When do you think Lestrade is likely to come?"

"To be perfectly honest, I hope that he stays away. You need to rest."

The doctor forced his eyes open enough to look back at him. "You should assist him. He might arrest an innocent."

He gave him a reassuring smile. "I shall keep my temper," he promised quietly. "Rest now old fellow. We shall discuss the case when we have data and you are in better condition."

He nodded and closed his eyes wearily.

~SH~

Inspector Lestrade called by that evening. His knock was so quiet that Holmes only barely heard it. He smiled to himself as he turned his eyes toward the sitting room door.

"What is it?" his companion asked him curiously.

He gestured in the direction of the door. "I think I can hear a far more thoughtful Scotland Yarder talking with Mrs. Hudson."

Sure enough, his footsteps sounded on the stairs soon after and he entered quietly. "I hope that this is a little more reasonable an hour, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said as he shrugged off his wet coat. He quickly turned to the detective's companion. "Hello Doctor Watson. Are you feeling any better?"

Before the doctor could give an answer, Holmes interrupted. "Of course he is not! You can see it by looking at him."

The inspector discarded his hat and muffler and frowned at the consulting detective. "I was only..."

"Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe your motives to be entirely honourable, in light of the appalling behaviour that you displayed yesterday," he said coldly.

"Holmes," Watson touched his arm. "Enough old boy."

He grumbled quietly. "Take the wicker chair Inspector. Watson, perhaps you should lie down for a time."

The doctor nodded and allowed him to make him comfortable.

"Now Lestrade," the detective curled himself into his armchair and steepled his fingers in front of him. "What was it about this murder that made you come straight to me?"

He shivered and rubbed his hands together.

"Forgive me," Holmes said quickly, cutting him off before he could utter a word. He stood to pour them each a brandy. "I could see that you were cold when you came in. Please take a moment to warm yourself. Here, drink this."

He took the glass that was offered to him gratefully. "Thank you Mr. Holmes."

Holmes gave him a quick smile before turning his attention to the man on the sofa. Despite the many blankets, he was shivering violently. "Should I get you a small brandy, Watson?"

"It might be a good idea," he replied through chattering teeth as he attempted to sit up.

"Stay still dear fellow. I shall assist you in a moment," he gave the inspector a glare to warn him to keep quiet and quickly poured some brandy into a third glass. He then returned to the sofa and helped his companion to sit up and take a sip.

"Thank you."

"Can you manage?"

He nodded and took another sip. "Yes Holmes. Thank you."

"Do not hesitate to interrupt, should you need anything," he told him quietly.

Watson gave him a look of surprise but nodded without a word.

He touched his arm and then returned to his armchair, curling up in it as before and raising his own glass of brandy to his lips.

"What is wrong with the doctor?" Lestrade asked him quietly.

"La Grippe," he told him. "It has had him off his feet since yesterday morning."

He nodded his understanding. "Half the Police force has it. That is part of the reason that I hoped that you could help me."

Holmes frowned as he cast his mind back to their previous case, which had only ended a couple of days previously. It had been part of the reason for his insistence that he and Watson had gone off to enjoy a night out, for he had thought that the case had left his friend upset in some way. Even during the case itself, the doctor had seemed subdued, almost depressed. Now he suspected that his companion had contracted the illness during the case and had been suffering in silence. His flat refusal to dine out with him before the concert should have been an indication in itself that something was wrong, for he usually enjoyed it a great deal. He decided that in future he would pay more attention to the quiet man who assisted him without hesitation or complaint. His words about it being natural that he should notice a change in his friend when he was unwell resurfaced in his mind to ridicule him. How could he be so stupid and blind?

"Is anything wrong, Mr. Holmes?"

He blinked and shook his head. "Not at all. Now, start at the beginning and give me every detail."

Lestrade swirled the drink in his glass thoughtfully. "What would you make of a body that had been chopped into bits and left in various Underground stations?"


	8. Chapter 8

Holmes straightened in his chair. He was about to reply when he heard a gasp from Watson and turned to him with concern. "I believe I instructed you to start at the beginning, Inspector," he said with annoyance as he got up to crouch beside the sofa, surreptitiously indicating the empty bowl that was still in a place from which his companion could reach it easily as he passed it. He wanted to make perfectly sure that Lestrade understood the necessity to be gentle with Watson.

"I only wanted to ensure that your interest was piqued, after your lack of interest last night," Lestrade remonstrated quietly.

The detective took the brandy from the doctor and turned an icy glare on the man sitting beside the fire. "I can assure you that my interest was piqued quite well enough. Had that not been the case, I would not have invited you to return at all," he turned back to Watson for a moment to ensure that he was all right. The man looked dreadful.

"I am quite all right, Holmes," he whispered as the brandy was replaced with a fresh glass of water.

He nodded and patted his arm before turning his attention back to the Scotland Yarder. "Now, I shall thank you to desist your melodrama and to keep to the facts," he snapped at him. "And I shall also thank you to omit the gore for the time being, if you please."

Lestrade gave a slight nod. "We were first called to Swiss Cottage. When we arrived on the scene we found a wicker case, as are often found in railway stations, with..."

"I think I can imagine why the case would have attracted attention," he interrupted, glancing at Watson from the corner of his eye. "Well? What was found at the scene, beside the obvious?"

He shifted in his seat. "There was a strange note in the bottom of the case. I brought it with me, in case you want to inspect it."

Holmes stood and stepped toward him quickly with his hand outstretched. "Was there anything else?"

"Well no," the inspector replied, giving him an inquiring look. "I already said..."

He frowned back at him, frustrated that he had failed to comprehend his meaning. "Did anyone see anything that they thought odd or suspicious? Was anyone behaving strangely; agitated in some way, for instance?"

"No," he shook his head. "We are asking any witnesses to come forward."

"What do you make of the message, Holmes?" Watson asked as he attempted to straighten up on the sofa to take a better look.

"Hum. Not as much as I would like," he admitted, scrutinising the paper carefully. "Every letter has been carefully cut from two... no, three different newspapers. There is not much more to glean, as the paper has become somewhat bloodied and smudged."

"What does the message say?" he pushed himself up on one elbow.

Holmes turned to him sharply. "Stay still Watson. Do you want to see it that badly?"

He nodded and sank back wearily. "You did say that we would work together."

"Yes indeed," a smile touched his lips. "Very well," he held the message up for him, not wanting the doctor to touch the paper.

The doctor's brow furrowed as he read the message carefully. "What can it mean?"

Lestrade chuckled. "Yes, it had us puzzled, too."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Do you mean to say that you understand the meaning of this?"

He chuckled again and finished his drink. "It makes perfect sense, when you put it with the others that we recovered. There was one with every body part."

The detective saw his companion grimace slightly and rested a hand on his arm.

"I am all right, Holmes," he assured him quietly before taking another sip of water.

He nodded but did not withdraw his hand, instead choosing to give his companion's arm the slightest of squeezes.

"Do you want to look at them together?" the inspector asked, smirking at Holmes with amusement.

"Yes," he gave a curt nod and fixed a steely glare on him. "Put them on the floor so that Watson can help me to make sense of them without having to move."

Lestrade did as he was asked without comment, though he did give the consulting detective a questioning glance.

The doctor gave a tired groan and turned to Holmes. "I am not sure how much help I will be to you," he whispered apologetically.

"You do more than you know old chap," he assured him quietly. "However, if you are unable to concentrate at all I shall understand. I simply did not want to leave you out."

He nodded his understanding and looked down at the messages. "It all seems like nonsense..."

Holmes made no comment but instead began to rearrange the pieces of paper carefully with the doctor watching in silence.

"It seems to be some kind of poem," Watson said suddenly.

"Yes..." he turned to meet the gaze of his companion. "What kind of a person commits a brutal murder and then leaves a poem in fragments for Scotland Yard to puzzle over?"

"That was another question that I hoped you would answer," Lestrade told him.

The doctor shivered. "A madman, obviously."

"Hum. Indeed. The thought had crossed my mind."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at the consulting detective. "Is that all you have?"

"Holmes already said..." Watson's breath hitched and he hastily raised his handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth. He sneezed explosively and huddled up as he began to shiver with cold anew.

"Bless you," the Scotland Yarder said absently as he gathered the notes from off the floor.

"Watson!" Holmes adjusted the blankets quickly and sat on the edge of the sofa at his companion's ankles. "Lestrade, I think that you should leave us. Watson is quite done up, as you can see."

He protested quickly. "I am all right, Holmes."

"You are not my dear fellow. You should rest for a while."

The inspector was already on his feet. "I hope that you feel better soon, Doctor."

"Thank you," he said quietly. "I am sorry to hinder your case so."

"It's hardly your fault, Doctor," he winked at him as he pulled on his coat. "Just hurry up and get well, eh?"

"Lestrade..." Holmes warned him dangerously.

He chuckled quietly and headed for the door, wrapping his damp muffler around his neck. "I meant nothing by it, you know. Have a care, both of you," he turned in the doorway. "Did you want to keep the messages for now, Mr. Holmes?"

"If you would be so kind."

He handed them over. "I thought you might want to take a good look at them."

"Thank you," he stopped the inspector as he turned to go again. "I should like to look at the cases and body. I cannot leave Watson for long, however."

He beamed at him.

"I might pick up on a detail that would otherwise be overlooked, that is my only reason. However, I shall first ensure that Watson is comfortable and shall not want anything while I am gone. You might not appreciate it Inspector, but he is very ill."

"Holmes, I am quite all right," his companion insisted.

He turned on him with annoyance. "You are not. If you were..." he shook his head, immediately regretting his harshness upon seeing the miserable expression that sprang unbidden to his friend's face. "If you were, I would not worry. Watson, this is the worst that I have ever seen you."

"I have to agree Doctor," Lestrade said quietly. "You look ghastly."

He sniffed miserably. "Thank you."

"I shall meet you at the Yard in an hour," Holmes told the inspector. "Have everything ready so that I waste no time."

"Right, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you," he waited until he was alone with his companion and then touched his shoulder gently. "I am sorry, Watson. I did not mean to snap at you. I simply did not want that infernal Scotland Yarder to decide that you were quite well enough to be dragged along after all."

Watson coughed and nodded tiredly. "It is all right Holmes, I understand."

He gave his shoulder a slight squeeze. "I shall ask Mrs. Hudson to keep a close eye on you. Before I leave you I shall help you to make use of the bathroom so that you shall be all right until I return. What else will you need?"

He smiled at him. "I should like some more water and perhaps a weak cup of tea."

"I shall ask Mrs. Hudson to bring you some. Have you had enough brandy?"

His companion shivered and rubbed at his arms. "Could you leave it where I can reach it?"

"Of course my dear fellow," Holmes patted his shoulder and then jumped to his feet, becoming a flurry of activity. He stoked the fire and ensured that the doctor had everything that he might need before he left, talking to himself as he checked off the list of necessities. At last he felt able to leave and rushed downstairs to explain the situation to their housekeeper.

"Must you go out? He is bound to fret," she said anxiously.

Holmes grimaced. "Please do not make me feel any more guilty than I already do. I hate to leave the poor chap in his condition."

"Very well Mr. Holmes... if it is unavoidable..."

"It is," he assured her. "I will be as quick as I possibly can. I hope to be back in less than an hour, but I have no idea how long I may be detained. I have not told Watson when to expect me, but he knows I shall only go to the Yard and back."

She raised her eyebrows at him questioningly. "Only there and back? You mean that you won't go off anywhere chasing a clue?"

"No Mrs. Hudson. That is what the Yarders are paid to do. Now," he changed the subject briskly. "Watson would like some fresh water and a weak cup of tea. His nausea seems to have passed, but I have ensured that he has a bowl close to hand should it return. He is still feeling terribly cold, so if you have any more blankets..."

"I shall keep a close eye on him Mr. Holmes," she interrupted with a smile. "You had better get going."

He nodded and threw on his coat, hat and muffler, which was not as warm as the one he had given to his ill companion. It would have to suffice, because he had no intention of asking the doctor to give the other back. He checked that he had his gloves in his pocket and quickly left the house. It was still raining and the cold assaulted him instantly after almost two full days spent in the warm sitting room. He shivered and pulled on his gloves, hoping that he would be able to find a cab and not have to walk all the way. He had only gone a hundred yards when the rain turned to a stinging sleet that lashed at his face. He thrust his gloved hands into his pockets and quickened his pace, wishing more than ever that he was still with Watson in front of a roaring fire. He had almost reached the Yard when he finally managed to hail a cab and by that time he was thoroughly chilled. He huddled on the seat shivering miserably as he struggled to get warm again. "I just hope that it does not snow," he muttered darkly as he looked out at the drowned streets and brooding sky.


	9. Chapter 9

Holmes scrambled from the cab as it pulled up outside Scotland Yard. The sleet was falling heavily, spurred on by the icy wind, and he paid the driver quickly before hurrying indoors.

"You're late," Lestrade noted with concern when he met him. "Is Doctor Watson all right?"

He shivered and blew into his numb hands. "Watson is no worse. It merely took me longer to get here than I had hoped."

"You look half frozen! Did you walk all the way?"

"Most of it. There was scarcely a cab to be seen on the road."

The inspector advised him to remove his outer garments. "I shall see that someone gets you a cup of tea."

"Thank you, but I really should get on," the detective began as he shrugged off his coat. "I have no intention of staying out a moment longer than I have to."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I am sure Doctor Watson would give me quite a flea in the ear if I let you catch a cold while you were here. Anyway, we both know that the crime in London would increase tenfold if you were to fall ill. Have a cup of tea and warm up before you start."

He laughed loudly. "Very well Inspector. I would be glad of a hot drink."

Lestrade left him for a moment to find a subordinate to get the tea. He then returned to Holmes with the intention of telling him exactly what had happened in detail, as the detective had been somewhat distracted back at Baker Street. He took him through to his office and asked him to be seated. The inspector waited until he was sitting comfortably and had taken his pipe from his pocket before taking his own seat at his desk.

"Do you mind if I smoke? I have not wanted to around Watson, as he seems to be having difficulty enough with his breathing."

"Not at all. I know that it seems to help you to think."

Holmes lit his pipe and relaxed visibly, crossing his legs, closing his eyes and steepling his fingers in front of him. "I am waiting Inspector."

"I told you that we were called to Swiss Cottage. The wicker case was leaking blood through its base, so we forced it open. Inside was a human leg, minus its foot, with a note. Well, you saw those messages..."

He nodded and blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling. "Yes, I did. Well? What happened after that?"

"I had the leg and the case brought back here. We had scarcely entered the building when I was sent off to Moorsgate. There my officers and I found another wicker case that was leaking blood and inside it was an arm with another note."

"And so it went on until the entire body had been recovered, I presume."

"That's right, yes."

He uncrossed his legs and sat up straighter, opening his eyes to gaze at the inspector. "And nobody saw anything?"

He shook his head. "No, not a thing. Not until the blood was noticed when it started to seep through the wicker of the cases."

"Hum!" he closed his eyes again and frowned thoughtfully. Surely it was impossible for a murderer to dispose of a body in such a way with nobody noticing?

There was a knock at the door.

"Thank you Constable," Lestrade said. "Set the tray on my desk here. Milk and sugar, Mr. Holmes?"

The detective added what he wanted to his own drink and removed his pipe from his mouth in order to sip at it gratefully. The tea warmed him instantly.

"Better?"

"Yes. Thank you Inspector, you were quite right. I did need this."

He raised his own cup to his lips. "Yes, I thought as much."

"I must confess that I find it difficult to believe that a murder of this sort could be carried out, with the body left on numerous busy platforms simultaneously, without a single witness."

"The choice of cases hardly stand out," Lestrade said.

"All the same, surely the blood would have started to escape rather quickly. The person carrying them should have been in quite a mess by the time all of the body parts had been disposed of, I should think."

The inspector smiled at him. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

"Please do not play games, Lestrade. Tell me what you know."

He took another sip of his tea. "There was very little blood in those cases. Obviously there was some, enough to draw the attention of the public, but not as much as one might expect."

"That is interesting," he remarked.

"Have you any ideas why our murderer might have decided to do this?"

Holmes finished his tea and returned to puffing on his pipe. "The murderer is one that wants attention. The messages, the locations, it all indicates sensationalism. I thought it when I first saw the poetry. If I am right, this murderer may well strike again."

"Do you really think he would want to go through all this again?"

"Why not? It seems to have worked rather well for him on this occasion. We have to find him before he has the opportunity," he sprang to his feet with sudden vigor. "Now, I think it is time that I looked at the body."

~SH~

The body had belonged to a young woman, but there were no clothes to give a clue as to who she had been or what she had done. She had been cleanly cut up, that was the first thing to note. The cuts could have been made by a butcher and Holmes said as much.

"So the murderer is a butcher," Lestrade said. "Could the victim be his wife?"

He gave him a cold stare. "I did not mean to imply that this was done by a butcher Inspector, only that it was done by a person that knew how to dismember a body cleanly. It could just as easily have been done by a doctor."

He nodded mutely, having been put in his place for the moment.

The detective picked up one of the hands and examined it closely. "Her nails are well manicured but slightly twisted and misshapen " he noted. "She also has depressions on her fingertips. A typist then," he turned his gaze on Lestrade. "Perhaps not a butcher's wife after all."

The inspector frowned back at him.

"Forgive my lack of patience," he said absently as he turned his attention back to the hand that he was still holding. He was finding it difficult to concentrate, not that he was about to admit as much to the man at his side. It was hard to piece details together when his treacherous mind kept turning itself to the companion that he had left at Baker Street. The reason was not simply concern for the doctor, either. The truth was that Watson helped him to focus his mind, as if he knew exactly what he needed: he could be silent for hours on end and then ask just the right question at the crucial moment, bringing a new perspective on his train of thoughts. More than ever Holmes knew that he needed his Boswell to assist him.

Lestrade touched his arm and actually managed to make him jump. "I am sorry," he said as the detective turned a steely glare upon him. "But I got a little concerned when you failed to answer me."

"What was it that you said Inspector?" he asked coldly.

He raised his eyebrows. "I only asked if you felt all right. You don't seem quite yourself, Mr. Holmes."

"I feel perfectly well," he snapped at him. "Must you insist on interrupting me?"

Lestrade stepped back. "I am sorry if my concern is distracting you," he said sarcastically. "Would you like me to leave you to your work?"

The detective drew a long, deep breath. Watson would have apologised on his behalf while he reined in his temper, but of course he was not there to do so. "My apologies Inspector," he said at last, very quietly. He was not about to admit to being tired, concerned for his ill companion or otherwise unable to concentrate. Sherlock Holmes was a machine; he did not allow anything to slow him down.

"No harm done," the inspector said in answer to the apology. He folded his arms and moved a little closer to the detective, watching him from the corner of his eye.

Holmes recognised the body language, as well as the way that he was being observed, but chose to ignore it. He was not his usual self and he knew that it was no surprise that the man beside him had become concerned. Well, at least he had stopped his attempted witty remarks and had lapsed into silence. He finished his analysis of the dismembered hands and set them down. This done, he wiped his hands on his handkerchief and pulled out his pocket watch, only to discover that he had already been out for nearly two hours. Well, that settled it; he would have to complete his analysis quickly and merely submit anything of interest to memory.

"Anxious to get home?" Lestrade asked him.

He nodded. "I told Mrs. Hudson that I had no intention of staying out for more than an hour. It must have taken me much longer than usual just to get here."

The inspector cleared his throat. "What have you found out so far?"

"The nails of the left hand have been broken, and there is what would appear to be blood under them. Have the substance analysed Inspector," he started on the arms. "The right arm has bruising below the wrist; perhaps this is why she only lashed out with the left hand."

He nodded and took careful note. "Anything of interest on the left arm?"

"No," he moved on to the torso.

~SH~

At last, Holmes felt sure that he had done all that he could. He had looked at the wicker cases and found that there was indeed much less blood in them than he might have expected. The body parts had been cleaned thoroughly before they had been put in their containers.

"That explains how the cases were left without any attention being drawn," Lestrade said. "But how will we find the culprit?"

"The man that did this is very clever. He was careful to avoid leaving any evidence. He was able to do this in a calm manner and with a great deal of knowledge."

The inspector nodded. "It is very little to go on."

"Precious little," he agreed with bad humour. "Perhaps you should begin by finding the identity of the victim and retracing her steps."

"And what will you do?"

The consulting detective gave him a quick smile. "Return to Baker Street and await data. I have been gone for too long already."

~SH~

The first thing that Holmes discovered when he retrieved his outer garments and stepped outside was that the sleet had become a blizzard. The light had faded from the sky and the lamp lighters had already done their job. He groaned with frustration and annoyance as he turned his steps toward home, knowing that attempting to find a cab in such weather would be pointless. He was only glad that Watson was safe and warm at home, where anyone with any sense should be. As he walked, he turned over all that he had seen in his mind, trying to piece it all together. The torso had a number of deep stab wounds, most likely the cause of death. However, there was also bruising on the throat. Then there were the cases, which seemed to have less blood in them than the paper of the notes would have suggested. He shivered as the wind found its way through his by now sodden muffler and quickened his pace.

~SH~

After what seemed an eternity, Baker Street loomed out of the swirling snow. He opened the front door of 221B and hurried inside, kicking snow from his shoes and sniffing as the warmth of the house caused his frozen nose to run.

"Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson appeared on the stairs with her arms folded. "I seem to remember you telling me that you would not be more than an hour."

He nodded and pulled a clean handkerchief from his coat pocket.

"Are you all right?" his housekeeper asked with quiet concern as she descended the stairs quickly.

Unable to give an answer immediately, he simply did his utmost to stifle the sneeze that burst forth. "Merely cold," he told her with a quick smile. "It was snowing hard and I was unable to find a cab."

"Bless you! No wonder you were so long," she took his coat, muffler and hat from him quickly. "You must be frozen!"

He wiped at his nose with the handkerchief. "I can assure you that I am quite all right. How is Watson?"

"He is sleeping," she told him. "But he had started to worry when you did not return. Perhaps you should change your clothes before he wakes sir; he is bound to only worry all the more."

He nodded and climbed the stairs quietly, glad to finally be home.

"I shall take you up some tea," the housekeeper assured him.

He turned to smile at her, catching the expression of concern on her face. "Thank you."


	10. Chapter 10

Holmes quickly changed his clothes and threw on his dressing gown and slippers before going through to the sitting room. He moved his armchair closer to the fire with the intention of taking to it once he knew that his companion was all right. Upon turning to the doctor, he found that he had curled himself up on the sofa with his right hand pressing a handkerchief to his nose and his left arm covering his eyes, pressing the cloth on his forehead closer to his skin as well as shading his eyes. He coughed in his sleep and mumbled something with a groan.

"Poor chap," the detective mumbled as he approached quietly.

Watson gave another low groan and shifted with a wince.

He crouched at his friend's side, hoping that he had not disturbed him. The doctor needed all the sleep that he could get.

"Holmes?"

He gave no reply, hoping that he would settle again.

His companion moved his arm away from his eyes, which were puffy and red-rimmed with illness, but seemed to remain in slumber. "Where are you?" he whispered, his voice rasping in his sore throat.

He placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I am home my dear fellow. You can rest now."

"Holmes..."

"I am here," he repeated in a gentle tone. "Rest old chap. Heaven knows that you need it."

Instead of responding in the manner that he would have liked, Watson gave a sudden, anxious gasp that made him cough again.

"Not another nightmare!" the detective muttered as he quickly moved his friend enough to be able to sit beside him. In the hope that the contact would be enough to reassure his companion, he moved his head and shoulders into his lap and gently rested a hand on his arm. "Sleep dear fellow. I am here, safe and sound. I promised you that I would not take any risks."

A knock came at the door and Mrs. Hudson came in with a laden tray. "Here we are, Mr. Holmes. Hot tea and some fresh water."

"Thank you. Set it down on the coffee table, would you?" he turned his attention back to his ill companion. "Watson, please calm yourself."

Their housekeeper turned from setting down the tray with concern. "Is there anything that I can do?"

"No," he told her. "I am hoping that I can reassure him without waking the poor fellow, but he is going to wake himself before long if he insists on carrying on like this."

"Holmes? Is that you?" the doctor asked suddenly, opening his eyes slowly.

He smiled to himself. Who else could it possibly be? "Yes," he said quietly. "I am home Watson."

"Your hands are like ice old boy," he whispered hoarsely.

"Watson, will you stop worrying about me?" he asked him with some annoyance, giving Mrs. Hudson a warning look before she could say anything. "Of course I feel cold to you! You have a fever."

The doctor turned his head to look him in the eye. "You are also shivering," he gave a start. "And your face is flushed!"

Holmes heard a huff from their housekeeper, followed by the door banging shut. He ignored both sounds and concentrated on Watson. "Enough," he shook his head and smiled at his friend. "Yes, yes. I suppose I should know by now that you notice details such as those..."

Instead of returning the smile his concerned expression deepened. "Then you are ill?"

"No," he assured him quickly as his fingers gave his arm the slightest of squeezes. "No my dear fellow, merely chilled. It is snowing hard out and as a result I found it difficult to get a cab straight away. I have changed into dry clothes and it is warm in here. I shall be perfectly all right."

He yawned and touched the hand that still rested on his arm. "You are sure that you feel all right?"

The detective nodded. "Yes, quite sure. You are the one that I am worried about old chap."

"Yes, I know," he replied with a grimace, closing his eyes tiredly.

Holmes removed the already warm cooling cloth from his companion's forehead and then rested his hand there to gauge his temperature, only to realise that his hands were so cold that his own forehead would probably seem hot to his touch. He carefully reached across for the thermometer that was still on the cluttered coffee table.

"Mrs. Hudson checked my temperature while you were out old boy," the doctor told him quietly, giving him a start.

"I did not realise that you were paying such close attention to what I was doing. Tell me, did Mrs. Hudson say what the reading was when she checked?"

Watson closed his eyes again and nodded wearily. "102.4," he hardly sounded very worried about it.

He frowned with renewed concern. "And how are you feeling?"

His friend groaned. "Tired, more than anything."

"Tut tut Watson. Stop telling me the obvious and give me a list of your symptoms. You know that I can see perfectly well that you are done up."

The doctor gave another groan. "Aches in the limbs... pain in the chest, made worse by coughing... headache... sore throat, made worse by swallowing, though the muffler seems to be helping that."

"Good, I am glad that the muffler is working," Holmes gently rested his hand on his companion's hot forehead. "Does this help your head?"

He smiled gratefully. "Yes," he sighed and then opened his eyes to meet the gaze of his friend. "Your hands truly are cold. Did you forget your gloves?"

"Of course not Watson. The temperature has dropped dramatically outside, that is all. I must confess that I should like to know how you can tell just how cold my hands are with your fever, however."

The doctor attempted a chuckle. "You touched my forehead, tutted to yourself and then reached for the thermometer. You could not tell whether I was hot to the touch or not."

He smiled broadly at his companion. "Excellent Watson!"

He grimaced and closed his eyes tightly with a quiet moan.

"My apologies. That was much too loud," the detective remarked quietly, admonishing his carelessness to himself as he gently massaged his companion's burning forehead with his cold fingers. "Does this help?"

"Yes Holmes, it does. Thank you."

He smiled. "Not at all my dear fellow. Now, would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes please. I must confess that I am still feeling cold."

He nodded. "Very well then."

"What will your next course of action be?" Watson asked him drowsily.

The detective turned from pouring the tea to frown at him. "Are you referring to the case?"

"Yes, of course."

"I have already told you my dear fellow. I shall stay here and let Scotland Yard do the legwork for a change," he set the doctor's teacup down beside him and touched his shoulder. "Here, allow me to help you to sit up."

His companion complied. "I thought that you had changed your mind when you went out after all."

"Oh, is that what you were so worried about?" Holmes asked with a slight smile as he plumped some cushions at the doctor's back and head. "No, I most certainly did not change my mind. Quite the contrary, in fact."

"Really?"

His smile broadened. "If the outing this evening has had any effect on my resolve at all, it has only strengthened it all the more. I missed your assistance my dear friend."

His companion took his cup and saucer in trembling hands and brought the teacup to his lips slowly. "I also missed you Holmes."

The detective seated himself beside his companion and took a sip of his own drink. "You are shaking!" he noted. "Are you truly as cold as all that?"

"It is the fever," the doctor mumbled with a particularly violent shiver.

"Yes, I know," he moved closer to his friend and slipped an arm around him. "I am so very sorry Watson. I wish that I could do more for you."

He sniffed and set aside his teacup quickly, his breath hitching. He just managed to put his drink down without spilling it before sneezing forcefully into the crook of his arm, having had no time to snatch up his handkerchief. "Oh," he groaned and brought it to his face with a grimace. "I am sorry about that."

Holmes simply patted his shoulder. "It was not your fault dear fellow. Are you all right?"

His companion shivered and gave another violent sneeze, this time into the handkerchief.

"Watson..." he squeezed his shoulder gently, conveying all his sympathy and concern in that simple touch.

"I am all right Holmes," he assured him before blowing his nose. "The sneezing is more of an annoyance than anything."

He nodded, though he suspected that it also hurt his throat and chest.

His companion yawned and rested his head against his shoulder. He gave a start and looked up at him. "You are still shivering, yourself. Holmes! You will catch your death of cold!" Without giving him an opportunity to protest, the doctor quickly unwound his blankets from about himself and wrapped them around them both, pressing himself closer to his friend's side as he did so.

The detective smiled gratefully at him, finally beginning to feel warm. "Thank you."

"You are welcome," he assured him, picking up his teacup again to finish the drink. "You should have told me that you were feeling so cold."

"I did not want to worry you. You are the one with la grippe, after all."

He frowned at him and shook his head. "We will be sharing this illness if you do not have a care, Holmes. You have scarcely stopped since I fell ill and you really should not have gone out in such terrible weather."

"I feel perfectly all right my dear friend," he assured him quietly. "Please rest. I shall be right here, should you need me."

"I think you should both have some soup, first," their housekeeper announced as she came back in. "Neither of you have had very much to eat for the last couple of days."

Watson smiled at her blearily. "Mrs. Hudson, you are a saint. Thank you."

The detective seconded the thanks as she moved their empty cups aside and gave them each a dish of soup with fresh bread.

"You are both welcome. Eat up now," she ensured that the water was within reach should they want it and then left the two of them to enjoy their meal, closing the door behind her.

"How did you get on at the Yard, Holmes?" the doctor asked suddenly, after the they had spent some time eating in silence.

He swallowed his mouthful and grimaced. "Are you sure that you want to discuss this now, Watson?"

"Well... you did say that we would work together..." he said, dipping his bread into the dish on his lap.

The detective nodded. "Yes and I meant it. I also meant it when I said that I work best with your assistance," he cleared his throat. "Watson, I was at a terrible loss without you this evening," he confessed.

"Then why do you not give me the details, Holmes?"

He stirred his soup with his spoon in an irritable manner. "Because you are ill old fellow. This murder is brutal and I know that the particularly unpleasant ones can upset you at the best of times."

"Honestly old chap, I have been to war!" he coughed into his handkerchief and grimaced.

"Yes, but war is different," he replied quietly. "I am quite sure that this murder would unsettle you whether you were in perfect health or not," he felt his companion give a violent shiver and wondered whether it was due to a chill or the knowledge that he had already gleaned from Lestrade. "At least finish your soup and rest first dear fellow. We shall go over the case when you are not so tired."

He nodded and cast him a glance. "You look rather weary as well Holmes. Perhaps you should do the same."

The detective rubbed at his eyes and stifled a yawn. "I am all right."

"Not for very much longer," his companion retorted dryly. "Take your own advice; eat and rest. If you do not, Lestrade might be forced to manage without you."

He nodded. "I submit dear fellow. You are quite right."

They finished their meal in silence and settled down once more with their shared blankets wrapped snugly around them, their bodies pressed close together to share all the warmth they could. Holmes permitted his ill companion to rest his head on his shoulder and leaned against him in return, no longer even attempting to stifle his yawns. The last thing that he noted as slumber overtook him was that Watson no longer felt quite so hot and that with any luck his fever was finally breaking. He smiled as his eyes slipped shut.


	11. Chapter 11

Holmes jerked awake suddenly and tensed, taking in his surroundings through slitted eyes as he tried to work out what it was that had disturbed him. He could hear the fire crackling quietly in the grate, the light of the flames the only light source in the room, but aside from that the sitting room was quiet and still. He stretched his legs carefully as they had become cramped while he had been asleep.

"Are you awake?" Watson asked him in a hoarse whisper.

"Yes. Something woke me. A noise from outside, perhaps. Did it disturb you as well?"

The doctor blew his nose. "Something certainly did."

He touched his companion's arm gently. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. I think the soup did me good."

Holmes smiled at the news. "I am very glad to hear it. You have had me worried."

"Yes, I know," he yawned and cleared his throat. "Would you discuss the case with me now?"

He laughed quietly, pleased that his friend was so interested. "If you insist."

"I do. It might do me good to have something aside from feeling unwell to concentrate on."

The detective's smile broadened. "Very well then."

Watson waited impatiently for him to begin while he crossed the room and poured them each a brandy.

He returned to his friend's side and handed him his glass before he began to pace in front of the fireplace, hoping to do something about the cramp in his legs without drawing attention to his discomfort. He went through all that he had been told by Lestrade, as well as the things that he had witnessed himself.

"The murderer must be very calm," the doctor remarked quietly when he had finally lapsed into silence. "It would take a very steady hand, as well as the knowledge, to dismember a body in the way that you described."

"Yes," he steepled his fingers and pressed his index fingers to his lips. "I believe that this is a man that wants attention, Watson. Everything about this murder indicates sensationalism."

His companion nodded and muffled a cough with his handkerchief. "Yes, it does."

"This is the most frustrating case that I have been faced with!" Holmes hissed, clenching his fists. "There are so few clues..."

His friend stood slowly and went to his side, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Lestrade will take your advice old chap. You know that he will. If a typist has been reported missing, he will find out. From there, perhaps we can pick up the trail."

He nodded. "Yes, I know," he said quietly, allowing the soothing hand to calm him.

Watson patted his shoulder gently and guided him back to the sofa. "You are wearing yourself out old boy," he said softly. "First in caring for me and now with this case. You should sleep."

He allowed the doctor to make him comfortable without complaint. "You should do the same dear fellow," he reminded him. "I would like you to make a full recovery."

His companion squeezed his arm. "I think that you can put your mind at rest now. I really do feel very much better. My throat is still a little sore, but certainly bearable. My head is much better and the chest pains are gone."

"You seem to be able to stand without swaying at least," he noted, looking him over carefully. "But you must have a care my dear friend. You disregard your well-being much too easily."

He chuckled and coughed into his handkerchief. "I do believe that that would be termed as the pot calling the kettle black Holmes."

"Yes, I suppose that you are right," he laughed to himself and then became serious. "And while we are on the subject of the pot calling the kettle black, Doctor Watson... Perhaps in the future you might tell me when you are feeling unwell."

The doctor coughed again. "I did not have to. You noticed easily enough."

He frowned at him. "No, I did not. Not straight away. Not until your symptoms were all too obvious. I thought that you had started to succumb the day before I noticed, because you had been so very quiet and had even refused to dine out with me, as we would usually do before we attended the performance that I so wisely decided that we should attend," he shook his head. "But you were subdued during much of the case, as well. You contracted this illness from one of Gregson's men, did you not? Probably the young officer that you took it upon yourself to comfort when he was taken ill at the scene of the crime."

"Holmes, that was the first body that he had witnessed," his companion shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You may or may not have felt the urge to vomit when you set eyes on your first dead body, but many people do. It is a natural reaction."

"Yes, it is," he agreed. "Which is why I became so angry with his less than sympathetic colleagues. By the way, thank you for your assistance. Your actions were much faster than those of his colleagues and of much more use. I was most grateful to you for taking him outside."

Watson stifled a yawn and blinked in the dim light sleepily. "I know how important it is that the evidence is not contaminated before you are able to examine every detail."

"Yes, well, thank you very much. Now, as for the reasoning behind my deduction... I seem to recall that he was rather quiet for the duration of the evening while we worked and that the following days he was not present. Over the course of the next two days that we were engaged on the case, you became increasingly subdued and there were occasions when you even seemed far from interested in what was happening. At the time, I believed that you were disturbed by something that had taken place," he looked him in the eye. "But you were feeling ill, were you not?"

He nodded wearily.

"Why did you not say?"

The doctor raised a hand to his forehead tiredly. "I did not think that it was very serious."

"Perhaps you would not have become so ill had you rested when you first felt unwell. In future, I would like you to tell me if there is something wrong."

His companion frowned back at him and shook his head. "You have never let me know when you have been feeling ill. In fact, you tend to insist that you are in perfect health until you are incapable of dragging yourself from your bed. Perhaps if you were a little more honest with me, I would be more inclined to be honest with you."

The detective nodded. "Touché, Watson," he said quietly, yawning into his hand. "You are quite right. We are both at fault."

The doctor settled back on the sofa and finished his brandy. "We should sleep Holmes. Inspector Lestrade could arrive at any time tomorrow with a lead."

"Yes indeed. Good rest my dear friend."

"Good night, Holmes," the doctor rested his hand on his arm gently as they settled down again.

The detective smiled and rested his head on the shoulder of his companion with a weary sigh. It had been a long week and it was indeed catching up with him.

~SH~

There was a loud banging on the door downstairs and Holmes forced his eyes open with a groan. The light streaming through the bay window was far too bright and he screwed his eyes shut again with another groan, trying to ease the pain in his head. He heard the front door open and the voices of Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade engage in chatter. It was difficult for him to discern every word that was spoken, but he most certainly heard the word "development". That single word was enough to perk him up and he quickly sat up straight and did his utmost to appear as alert as always. A glance at the clock told him that it was almost eleven. He frowned and looked again, unable to believe it. Eleven? He was almost always up long before that time.

"You are awake then," he heard Watson's voice say by way of greeting as he stepped from the bathroom behind him. "How are you Holmes?"

"Me?" he turned to him with confusion. "I am perfectly all right old chap. But how are you feeling?"

He smiled at him and returned to stand beside the sofa. "I am much better, thank you. I think I might even be well enough to take a short walk. Light exercise should help me to regain my strength."

"I am so very glad," he returned the smile wearily. "Just have a care not to do too much too soon dear fellow."

The doctor looked as if he was about to say something else when footsteps sounded on the stairs.

"Inspector Lestrade has news for us, it would seem," the detective said quietly, stifling a yawn. "Sit beside me old chap and let us see what he has to tell us."

His companion complied without a word and they turned their attention to the door expectantly.

Lestrade entered and hung his coat before the fire. "Good morning," he said, smiling at Watson. "You are looking much brighter Doctor. How are you feeling?"

"Much better, thank you. How are you Inspector?"

"Perfectly well, thank you," he turned to the detective. "And how are you, Mr. Holmes? I trust you found a cab all right?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "I managed. Thank you for your concern."

"I should think I was concerned! You were a far cry from your usual self yesterday."

Holmes frowned at him. The last thing that he wanted was for his recovering companion to become any more concerned for his well-being than he already was. "I am quite well Inspector. I was merely preoccupied."

He raised his eyebrows but nodded. "Worried about your friend and colleague, yes. I suppose that it is perfectly understandable."

He waved his hand impatiently. "Would you like to tell us why you are here? Or have you merely dropped by for an idle chat over tea and biscuits?"

Watson nudged him gently and gave him a look of reproach.

"There have been a couple of developments," the inspector told them. "Gregson's men have uncovered another body. Well, part of it. So far, we have a hand and a foot."

That meant that he would now be working with the two inspectors. In different circumstances he would would have found the thought of it amusing. "Then we shall also be working with Gregson. How nice," he remarked.

"That's one word for it," Lestrade muttered.

Holmes laughed. "Forgive me Inspector. Aside from this second body being discovered, are there any further developments?"

"Yes. I went through every lost persons report that had been filed recently and found one for a young lady that worked as a typist. I was going to interview her family today. Would you care to join me?"

He smiled and rose to his feet. "I think I shall. You will be all right, Watson?"

"Actually, I think I should like to accompany you," the doctor told him. "I am becoming tired of staring at the same four walls."

He frowned at him. "Then might I suggest that you go to your bedroom for a change of scenery?" he retorted. "I do not think that you should come with us."

"Holmes, my fever is gone and I feel very much better. Perhaps you should check and judge for yourself. Of course, if you are worried about contagion..."

The detective shook his head. "I care not at all about whether or not you are contagious! You have been severely ill and I do not want you to relapse. Stay here and rest. If you are still feeling well enough when I return, we shall take a walk after lunch."

"Now Holmes, be fair old boy..."

"I had thought that I was," he said, becoming angry with his friend. "But, all right, you may present your case," he sat down in his armchair and closed his eyes, steepling his fingers in his lap. "I am waiting."

Watson cleared his throat nervously. "I am feeling very much better, first of all, and I do not enjoy being left behind if there is no need. The condition that you were in worried me a great deal last night and I very much doubt that I shall be able to rest while you are out, as I shall fear that you have done yourself some harm. Have you actually seen the weather this morning?"

He opened his eyes to regard his companion thoughtfully. "Do you mean to tell me that your argument is that you will recover much better braving the conditions with me than you would in here by the fire?"

"Yes," the doctor said emphatically. "Because I know that if I am at your side, you shall have to take more care than you would normally. Also, you shall have less reason to worry about how I am if you can see for yourself that I am quite all right."

"Touché," he mumbled. "As much as I dislike having to admit it, you have presented your case beautifully. Bravo Watson, you win," he stood and stretched. "Please excuse me while I get ready."


	12. Chapter 12

By the time the three men were on the road it was approaching noon and Holmes could feel himself becoming increasingly irritable. The weather made travel on the roads frustratingly slow and difficult and they had already been delayed. This was because Watson had annoyingly informed Inspector Lestrade that neither of them had had any breakfast while he had been hurriedly washing and changing into clothes that were not crumpled from having been slept in. The inspector had then, probably rather predictably under the current circumstances, insisted that they both eat something ("And I mean something more substantial than two bites of an apple on the way, if you don't mind Mr. Holmes!") before they left the house. He would have preferred for the doctor to have stayed at home and completed his recovery while allowing him to accompany the inspector unhindered. The thing that infuriated him the most, however, was the way in which the infernal Scotland Yarder seemed so amused as he gazed at the consulting detective and his colleague from the seat opposite them as they travelled in silence. Had Holmes been delayed in the manner that Lestrade had been, he most certainly would not have shown any sign of enjoying himself.

"It is good to have you back with us Doctor," the inspector announced suddenly, drawing his attention. Perhaps it was simply the welcome return to normality that was the reason for his apparent good humour.

Watson turned from staring out of the window beside him to smile at the Yarder. "Thank you Inspector. It is good to be back."

Holmes cleared his throat and addressed his companion with the hint of a smile. Annoying though he sometimes was, he had missed the doctor's assistance a great deal. Now was not the time to become impatient with the man.

His companion touched his arm and turned back to the inspector. "How much further?"

"Not too much further. Why do you ask?"

The doctor shook his head and turned his gaze back to the view from the window at his side.

Concerned, Holmes laid his hand on Watson's as it rested on his arm and leaned closer to him. "Are you feeling sick?" he asked him quietly, not wanting Lestrade to overhear the exchange. "Would you feel better with the windows wound down?"

"I feel perfectly all right Holmes," his companion assured him. He did open the window, however.

The detective gave his hand a barely noticeable squeeze and withdrew, giving his friend room. He had already told his companion to speak up if he started to feel any worse and he knew that he would simply have to trust him to do so. He regretted giving in so easily, knew that normally he would have insisted that the doctor stay at home. He put the ease in which his companion had persuaded him down to his own selfishness.

"Is something wrong?" Lestrade asked him, gesturing in the direction of the man at his side.

He shook his head and turned his attention to the view from his own window, trying not to shiver in the chill draught from the one beside the doctor. "No."

~SH~

At last they arrived in Kensington and pulled up outside of a fine house. Holmes stood to jump from the carriage but the inspector stopped him.

"Wait here in the warm for a moment Mr. Holmes," he suggested. "There's no point in us all going to check if anyone's home."

The detective was surprised by the consideration but agreed. He watched Lestrade go through the gate and then turned to his companion. "You are very quiet, Watson. Are you sure that you are all right?"

"Yes Holmes," the doctor turned to give him a tired smile.

He gave his arm a subtle squeeze and turned his attention back to Lestrade, who was fidgeting slightly on the doorstep as he attempted to keep warm while he waited.

Watson sneezed suddenly and groaned with annoyance. "Excuse me."

"Quite all right old chap," he replied without turning from the window. As he watched, a servant came to the door and spoke with the inspector for a time. The Yarder handed him one of his cards and then returned to the carriage.

"Well," he said as he scrambled back in. "That was a wasted journey. Both the master of the house and his wife are out and will not return until this evening. I left them a card and told the butler that I shall return at seven."

"I should like to join you Inspector, if you have no objections," Holmes told him. "I suppose we should go and see what Gregson has found, in the meantime."

Lestrade nodded and turned to Watson. "Would you like to be dropped off on the way Doctor?"

"Why would I want..." his breath hitched and he raised his handkerchief to his face, screwing his eyes up as he did so. After a moment he gave a tremendous sneeze that might caused him to fall from his seat had Holmes not held him firmly in place.

"Bless you," the Scotland Yarder said. "You tell me Doctor. I just thought that you seemed to be getting tired, that was all."

He shook his head and blew his nose. "I am all right Inspector."

Holmes frowned at his companion with concern.

"Do you want me to go home?" Watson asked him rather sharply.

He raised his eyebrows at him. "I simply have no intention of making you any worse, that is all. If you come with us to Scotland Yard, I am not going to be able to drop everything and take you home, Watson. If you are feeling tired now, it would be advisable to return to Baker Street while you have the opportunity."

His companion shook his head stubbornly. "I am perfectly all right."

"Very well then," he turned to Lestrade. "Let us be off Inspector."

~SH~

Despite his assurance that he was not tired or feeling particularly unwell, Watson was asleep long before they were anywhere near Whitehall. Holmes permitted his companion to rest his head on his shoulder and slipped an arm around him to ensure that he would not fall or slip from their seat.

"You look almost as tired as he does," Lestrade remarked suddenly. "I hope that you are not ailing Mr. Holmes."

He shook his head. "No, I am quite well. It has merely been a long week, what with Gregson's investigation and one thing and another."

"Yes, I heard all about the murders. Gregson was stumped, from what I was told."

Holmes allowed himself a small smile. The petty rivalry between the inspectors never failed to give him some amusement. "Indeed."

"Still, you worked it all out quickly enough," Lestrade remarked cheerfully.

He merely flicked his hand in an idle manner and turned his gaze to the street. "Oh no," he groaned quietly.

"Is something wrong?"

"Yes Inspector. It is snowing. Again!" he grimaced. "As if the snow was not deep enough already."

"Well, cheer up. If we have to track a murderer across London, we might be glad of all the snow," the inspector said with a small smile. "At least we will have plenty of footprints."

He nodded and watched the snow as it swirled around their carriage. "That is true enough."

Lestrade sighed and leaned back in his seat. "I was expecting one of your engaging conversations that you usually entertain me with during these journeys," he remarked. "I can't remember you ever being so quiet."

Holmes gave no reply. He simply did not feel very talkative. He was still tired after his last case, as well as caring for his ill companion, and as a result the headache that he had awoke with was still troubling him.

The inspector shrugged and turned his gaze to the window, watching the streets pass them slowly as the horses plodded onward.

~SH~

"Ah, here we are!" Lestrade's voice announced suddenly.

Holmes jerked from his doze and frowned at the man opposite him, daring him to make a comment about his falling asleep.

"Sorry to interrupt," the inspector said innocently. "I thought I should leave you alone to your thoughts."

He nodded and sniffed. "Thank you. It was appreciated," he turned his attention to Watson, who still had his head on his shoulder, and shook him gently.

The doctor moaned and started to cough as he sat up. "I am sorry Holmes. Did I fall asleep?"

"Yes, you did. I thought that you were perfectly all right."

"I was. I am," he stretched his leg carefully. "Where are we?"

"Scotland Yard," the inspector announced, interrupting. "Come along you two! Look lively."

Holmes waited for Lestrade to get down and then followed. He stepped aside to allow his companion to get out, offering him his hand in case he needed assistance.

The doctor shivered violently and hugged himself for warmth. "It is dreadfully cold!"

"Yes," he agreed. "And it feels all the colder after spending two days wrapped up beside a warm fire."

Watson sneezed loudly and stumbled, almost slipping on a patch of ice.

"Have a care old chap," the detective had an arm around him instantly, steadying him. "Come on, let us get indoors."

He nodded and gave another violent sneeze. "I am sorry Holmes..." he began tiredly.

"Yes, well..." he frowned at his companion with annoyance. He was about to launch into a tirade that he would most certainly have later regretted, but the look on Watson's face caused his words to die on his lips. He looked incredibly miserable. "As long as you rest when we get home, I do not suppose that there is any harm done. Just try to stay quiet and keep warm while I work."

"Then there would be no point in my being here. I want to assist you."

"You would assist me the best by making a swift recovery," he told him in a tone that was sharper than he intended. He shook his head and relented. "Assist me if you prefer, but do not overly exert yourself."

They entered the building together and joined Lestrade, who took them through to meet with Gregson.

~SH~

Inspector Lestrade seemed eager to make Gregson appear thoughtless. He immediately sent for hot drinks for "Scotland Yard's guests" and found a comfortable chair for Watson to sit in while Holmes examined the new body.

"Here we are Doctor," Holmes heard him say as he set down another chair for his companion. "Put your feet up. I can see that your leg has been hurting you."

To say that the detective was surprised by his sudden attentive attitude would have been an understatement, but he was extremely grateful. With no reason to be overly concerned about his ill friend for the moment, he started his thorough examination.

As with the first body, a sentence from a poem had been left with each body part in a separate wicker trunk. There were no articles of clothing or anything else that might prove to be helpful.

"Have you found anything?" Gregson asked him as he came to stand to his left.

"Patience," he retorted with poorly-suppressed annoyance as he studied the right hand. "Hum, well, this woman is a little older than the first. She is also most certainly not a typist."

Lestrade approached to stand at his right. "Then they have nothing in common that we can see. What would you guess that this poor soul did for a living?"

"I do not guess!" he snapped.

"What do you deduce, Holmes?" Watson's tired voice asked in a soothing tone.

He smiled to himself at his friend's helpfully calming manner. "I can see that this woman worked hard for a living. Her skin is tough and her fingers show some signs of arthritis. Going by the right hand alone, I would deduce that she was a servant of some kind."

Gregson peered at the hand that the detective was turning over in his careful fingers. "Any clues about the murderer?"

He frowned. "He is meticulous. He knows how to dismember a body and he is able to remain calm enough to keep his hands steady as he works. I would deduce from this that he is quite probably a doctor. Possibly a surgeon."

He heard Watson get to his feet slowly and approach somewhat unsteadily. "The thought crossed my mind when you spoke with me about this case last night."

"Hum," he turned to frown at his companion. "Yes, I thought that it might."

The doctor cast a glance over the body and attempted to suppress a shudder.

"Are you cold Doctor?" Lestrade asked him, going to his side.

"Watson, I do wish that you would sit down," Holmes told him as he turned his attention back to his work. He had no time for this.

His companion ignored his admonishment, instead coming to his side to study the trunks. "There is even less blood than your description would have had me believe Holmes," he remarked.

"There is precious little evidence," he murmured in reply.

Gregson stared at him. "Does that mean that you can't solve this one?" he asked in an incredulous tone.


	13. Chapter 13

Watson rested his hand on his companion's arm. "Of course he can solve it!" he snapped somewhat harshly, despite the obvious soreness of his throat. "That is why Inspector Lestrade asked for his assistance in the first place!"

Holmes was rather touched and flattered by the faith that his friend had in him. He addressed him with a grateful smile.

His companion returned his smile and watched him with interest as he went over everything again.

"We have two women, one approximately ten years older than the other," the consulting detective said slowly. "The first woman I would say is in her mid thirties though it is a little difficult to say, what with the condition that her remains are in. The older woman would be in her mid to late forties, I believe. Are you able to be any more precise Watson?"

"As you say, it is difficult," the doctor said quietly.

He touched his arm, noting that his friend's façade was slipping as he became increasingly tired. He had paled and was beginning to shiver. "Sit down," he instructed him firmly.

He nodded and dragged a chair to the detective's side.

"Watson..."

The doctor muffled a cough with his handkerchief. "Concentrate on the task at hand Holmes. I am all right."

He quirked an eyebrow at him but complied, turning back to the remains of the two women. He was almost too preoccupied to even hear the hot drinks being brought in. "The younger woman is a typist," he announced, going back over what had been established as he searched for something that he might have missed. "Her fingers are proof enough of that. The older woman has some arthritis apparent in her knuckles. She has been out in the cold a great deal of late. Her lips are visibly chapped."

"What does that tell you?" Gregson asked him.

"That she either could not afford a cab and was employed quite a distance from her home or that she worked out of doors," Holmes replied, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "I must confess that I am finding it somewhat difficult to see any kind of connection between the two victims."

Watson touched his elbow. "Is your head aching?"

"Not at all," he said airily with a wave of his hand, all the while silently cursing himself for not realising what he was doing until his companion had noticed the action.

Inspector Lestrade had also turned his attention to him. He frowned with concern. "Perhaps you should stop for a moment and take some tea, Mr. Holmes," he said quietly.

He nodded and took a seat in the chair that had been meant for Watson to rest his feet upon, resting his chin upon his chest in the usual manner that he adopted when he was thinking. He closed his eyes and heaved a weary sigh.

"Tea, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade pressed in a cheerful tone.

He frowned at the inspector for his interruption, but then he relented and nodded. "Thank you."

"It is difficult for a man to think clearly when he becomes too thirsty," Watson remarked quietly with a knowing smile. "Staying well hydrated will help you a great deal in your work Holmes."

The detective shot him a withering look in return and sipped at his tea gratefully. After taking a second sip he cast his eyes over the wicker cases. Suddenly thinking of something, he handed his companion his cup and stood to examine the trunks again, taking his magnifier from one of his pockets.

Watson put aside the two cups and stood at his side, watching in as much silence as was possible for a man with la grippe to manage.

"Aha!" the detective crowed suddenly, his headache forgotten in an instant.

Lestrade and Gregson rushed to his side.

"What have you got?" Gregson asked him.

Holmes smiled at them. "Fibres on the lid of this case. It is dark and looks as if it might be from a woollen item of clothing. A muffler, perhaps."

"Well, at least it is something," Lestrade remarked.

He took an envelope from his pocket and put some of the fibres inside it. "I should be able to glean something from this at Baker Street," he announced cheerfully. "Now, let us see if there are any further clues to be found."

Another of the cases, one that Holmes had already looked at the day before, had fibres inside the lid that looked as if they may have come from the sleeve of a suit jacket. These fibres were safely stowed in a second envelope to avoid cross contaminating the traces in the fibres, even if it was probable that both bodies had been dismembered in the same place and by the same hands. Encouraged by his finds, he examined the remaining cases with renewed energy and enthusiasm, the reward of which was further wool traces on the lids of another four of the cases.

"You missed rather a lot yesterday," Gregson noted with a great deal of satisfaction.

He shook his head which caused the annoying pain above his nose to flare and bring itself back to his attention. "No, these cases are new. The blood in them is fresher," another thought suddenly occurred to the detective and he pulled the envelopes from his pocket again in order to compare the fibres that came from the lids of the cases. "Hum, now this is something of interest," he remarked thoughtfully.

"What is Holmes?" Watson asked him eagerly.

He gave his friend a smile that was almost a grimace of chastisement at his own near failure to pick up on an obvious clue. "Three of the wool fibres are a dark wine and two of them are a navy blue."

"Is that very remarkable?" Gregson asked him. "After all, you did say that the wool fibres are most likely from a muffler. Perhaps it is striped."

He dismissed the thought at once. "Doubtful. How would the muffler only leave traces of only one colour and not the other? It must surely have grazed the wicker more than once."

Lestrade looked grim. "If you are right, then we are looking for more than one murderer."

"It would explain how the cases came to be reported in such quick succession when they were all over the city," Gregson added thoughtfully.

"Yes, I thought that that might dawn on you," Holmes retorted as he slipped the envelopes back inside his pocket. "I think I have done all that I can for now. Let us go home Watson, I have some experiments..." he froze suddenly and stared straight ahead.

His companion, who was becoming used to him suddenly thinking of something and allowing his fast mind to go off at a sudden tangent, simply resumed his seat and waited.

The detective took his handkerchief from his pocket and unfolded it quickly. He then gave vent to a sudden, violent sneeze.

Watson jumped and turned to stare at him in surprise and concern. "Bless you!" he said after pulling himself together.

Having decided that he was not about to sneeze again, he folded away the handkerchief and frowned at his friend with annoyance. "There is no reason for you to look at me in such a way! I am quite all right."

The doctor nodded and gave him a sheepish smile. "Yes, of course. It was only one sneeze, after all," he cleared his throat somewhat nervously. "You took me by surprise, that is all. I had no intention to seem overly concerned."

The choice of words were not lost on Holmes, who suspected that his companion was admitting that he had indeed been concerned but would not have let it show had he not been caught off guard. He decided to ignore it however and merely finished the sentence that had been interrupted. "I have some experiments to conduct."

"Yes, of course. We should get home," Watson stood slowly and stiffly, reminding the detective that he was still far from well.

He took his arm and turned toward the door but then stopped again. "I would advise you to call at Baker Street at no later than six this evening Lestrade," he said, turning to the Yarder in question. "We shall want to allow for any delays brought on by this foul weather."

"Yes, of course. I shall see you at six then Mr. Holmes."

He guided his companion out without another word. "I shall have to hail a cab," he noted. "You should wait for me in here."

"I am not sure that you should go out in the cold any more than I should, Holmes. That sneeze was rather a big one."

"Pfft!" he snorted. "As a doctor, you should know that any number of things can make a fellow sneeze."

Watson nodded tiredly. "Absolutely. From a reaction to bright lights, to pollen or dust. It is not as if I have never heard you sneeze before; but you can usually stifle them, probably due to your profession, and when you are unable to it usually suggests that you are succumbing to illness."

He chuckled. "Perhaps I should not encourage you to improve your perception and deduction my dear fellow. It seems that you turn your hand to it at the most inappropriate moments."

His companion smiled wanly but said nothing. He was very pale again and his eyes were dull.

"Watson, are you all right?" he asked, touching his arm anxiously.

He nodded and took a careful breath. "I was suddenly very... tired."

"No, you are not only tired. You are trying to avoid a fainting spell, by the look of you," he looked about them quickly, trying to decide on the best course of action. He found himself wishing that he had asked one of the Scotland Yarders to take them home.

His companion shivered and rubbed at his arms. "La grippe has a tendency to leave a chap feeling weak and tired for several days after the majority of the symptoms have passed."

"Which is exactly the reason I did not want you to exhaust yourself," Holmes snapped. He drew a deep breath and forced it out in a long sigh as he did his utmost to calm himself. "Anger does not help. Nor does frustration. The question is, what am I to do? I hardly want to leave you here in case you do pass out of consciousness."

The doctor slowly sank to the floor and propped himself against the wall. He shivered violently. "I shall wait for you here. I will be all right."

He crouched at his friend's side for a moment and then removed his Inverness, draping it over him like a blanket. "Try to keep warm. I shall only be a moment."

"But..." he began weakly.

"Mr. Holmes!" Lestrade's voice called anxiously, making him turn his head in the direction that they had just come from. The inspector raced to them. "What happened?"

Watson gave another violent shiver and attempted to stand.

"Stay still for a little longer," the detective instructed. "You are still far too pale," he then turned to explain to the Scotland Yarder. "Watson had a sudden fainting spell. I did not think that it would be wise for me to leave him in such a condition."

"Indeed not," the inspector agreed. "Wait here. I am sure I can find someone to drop you home. It will take you forever to find a cab on a day like this and I know that I couldn't live with myself if I let you both walk home in this weather."

The moment that the Yarder had gone, Watson pulled himself unsteadily to his feet.

Holmes was tempted to tell him to stay on the floor, but the stiffness in his leg was clear to see and he knew that it was probably painful for his companion to do so. He quickly put a supportive arm around him and pulled him close when he noticed that he was still shivering.

"Holmes..."

He turned his sharp eyes on his friend, his concern immediately escalating. "Yes my dear fellow?" he asked quietly.

"Before we ride home I am going to have to... to relieve myself."

He squeezed his shoulder. "That is a good idea. The journey is likely to take rather a long time. Perhaps I should do the same..." he felt Watson fidget slightly beside him and frowned at him, realising that perhaps he was in rather more of a hurry than his polite attitude permitted him to let on. "Do you know where the lavatory is?" he asked him quietly, wondering why he was still standing there.

His companion nodded and fidgeted again. "One of us should wait here in case the inspector comes back."

"Yes, I will. Go on Watson," he urged him gently, wishing that he would put himself first on occasion.

The doctor thanked him quietly and handed back his Inverness.

"Go on," Holmes repeated. He watched his friend as he walked away as quickly as he was able with some misgiving. Every so often he would sway and the detective wondered whether he should have accompanied him.

Lestrade returned soon after and looked around with a concerned frown. "Where is the doctor?"

"He thought that it would be wise to visit the lavatory before we left," Holmes told him. "I think I should like to ensure that he is all right, if you do not mind. I only waited here so that you would know where we were."

The inspector nodded his understanding. "Yes, of course. He did look rather the worse for wear."

Without another word the detective raced away in pursuit of his ill friend, hoping that no harm had come to him in his absence. He found Watson in the gentleman's lavatory, propping himself against a sink as he washed his hands with some difficulty. He quickly approached him and rested a hand on his shoulder.

"I suddenly feel quite peculiar," the doctor told him quietly. "My hands are numb."

"You do look as if you might faint," Holmes noted with concern. "What about your stomach?"

"I am not nauseous."

He frowned at him. "You were when we were in the carriage on the way here. Are you likely to feel sick when we are travelling, do you think?"

"I am not sure. I suppose I shall have to ask to be allowed to get out if the need arises."

"I suppose so," his frown deepened. "You should have allowed Lestrade to take you home when he offered."

The doctor moaned. "I wanted to be of help Holmes. Two days of being a burden are quite enough!"

He shook his head and turned off the tap for his friend. "You are not a burden! Watson, you are my dearest friend. Please, you must stop this."

"I am sorry."

He laughed and put an arm around him. "You can stop apologising as well. Come now old chap, Lestrade is waiting."

"You said that you wanted to pay a visit as well," his companion reminded him. "It is cold out and the journey is bound to take a considerable time. If you want to go, you should take the opportunity."

He had only said that it was a good idea because the doctor had seemed so embarrassed when he had been forced to tell him of his own call of nature, but he had to admit that the cold would probably make him uncomfortable, especially when coupled with a long, bumpy ride in a carriage. "Are you going to be all right while you wait for me?" he asked with concern.

"Yes, I shall be fine. I am beginning to feel better."

Holmes frowned at him with misgiving. He looked far from it. "Wait outside Watson. Sit on the floor in the way that you did earlier. I shall hurry."

His companion nodded and left the room slowly.

The detective quickly tended to his own needs before going in search of his companion. He found him lying on the floor and shivering violently. Without a word, he shrugged the Inverness from his shoulders and wrapped it around his friend before lifting him into his arms. He then turned and directed his footsteps back to the place where he had left Inspector Lestrade waiting.


	14. Chapter 14

Holmes studied his friend carefully as he carried him. His shivering was less violent now that he had been lifted up off the cold floor and the detective had wrapped him in his Inverness again, but he still looked very pale. "How are you feeling dear fellow?" he asked quietly.

"Better," he sniffed and wiped at his nose with a grimace. "Not as weak."

"Are you quite sure?"

His companion nodded and rested his head against him.

He frowned as he regarded his friend's expression and body language, all the while taking into account that he had not asked to be set down and permitted to walk, which was a clear indication that he was still feeling as if he might faint. "You should stay indoors for the next few days," he told him at last. "You have pushed yourself much too far."

The doctor raised his eyes to meet his gaze. "I must have learnt it from you."

He laughed in spite of himself. "You are just as stubborn as I am old chap. You do not need me to teach you anything of the sort."

His companion smiled wanly and closed his eyes.

"When I told you that I would not be able to drop everything for you I had no intention of causing you to put on a brave show Watson," he told his friend quietly. "I was merely attempting to persuade you to go home and rest."

"I know that Holmes," he whispered, suddenly sounding as if he might be on the edge of sleep. "It was not your fault. I simply wanted to be of help."

The detective shook his head sadly. Did his companion truly believe that he was only of any value to him when he was useful? "We are going to have a long talk when you are well enough," he warned him.

"That does not bode well," he heard his companion remark quietly.

He was about to try to reassure him when Lestrade ran to them quickly.

"Do you need any help, Mr. Holmes?" the inspector asked him with concern.

It was as if the doctor had forgotten where he was until he heard the Scotland Yarder's voice, for he suddenly forced his eyes open and gave a start.

"Rest Watson," the consulting detective advised him in his best soothing tone. "It is all right. I am not going to drop you."

"Set him down for a moment," Lestrade suggested. "You are going to get cold if you go out to the carriage dressed like that, Mr. Holmes. Let me see if I can find something else to keep the doctor warm."

He shook his head. "The floor is much too cold for him Inspector. I do not want to make him worse if it can be avoided."

"Then come with me," he quickly escorted them to an interview room and helped Holmes to lie his companion across two seats. "I shan't be long. Wait here and I shall see that you are not disturbed."

The detective waited until he was alone with his friend and then slowly sank to the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest and resting his back against the wall. He shivered and leant forward to prop his aching head on his knees. He was beginning to think that perhaps Watson was right and that he was indeed becoming unwell. He hoped that the illness, if illness it was, would give him enough time to see the case through before he was forced to slow down. It had taken his companion at least four days to succumb, after all.

~SH~

"Mr. Holmes?"

A gentle hand touched his shoulder in a tentative manner and he jumped and raised his head.

Lestrade crouched at his side, keeping his hand on his shoulder. "I am sorry Mr. Holmes," he said quietly, looking into his face with concern. "Were you asleep?"

"Not at all, merely resting my eyes," he said with a flick of his hand, though he knew that he must have dozed off for a moment.

The Scotland Yarder gave him a small smile and handed him his Inverness. "I managed to find some old rugs for the doctor. They are a little moth-eaten, but they should be better than nothing."

"Thank you Inspector," he stood quickly and threw on his Inverness with a show of energy.

"You are very welcome, of course," he replied with a small smile.

The detective looked toward the chairs across which his friend had been stretched and gave a start when he found them vacant. "Watson!" he looked about him anxiously.

"I took him out to the hansom," the inspector told him with amusement. "I did tell you as much when you were 'resting your eyes', Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps you heard but failed to listen..."

He bristled. "Oh, very droll Lestrade. You are clearly wasted as a Scotland Yarder."

He chuckled quietly and put an arm around him.

"Stop that," he hissed with annoyance as he brushed him off.

The inspector immediately became serious. "I am sorry, to be sure. I hardly meant to offend you. Come on now, let's get you home."

He frowned at him. "I am sure that we shall not need an escort Lestrade. I would not want to be accused of wasting police time."

"I want to know that you both get home safely," he insisted, taking him by the arm and leading him toward the door. "If one of my men were to be taken ill while out with you and Doctor Watson I would like to think that you would do the same. As a matter of fact, I am quite certain that the doctor would."

"I am not ill," he told the Yarder firmly.

Lestrade looked him in the eye. "You look decidedly peaky Mr. Holmes. If you were one of my men, I would tell you to take the rest of the week off and to see a doctor if you were no better by next Monday. Not that I would have to worry about that, in your case."

"I did not know that you worried so much Inspector."

He stared back at him for a moment and then shook his head. "First you say that I do not care enough and then I care too much! It seems to me that I can't win with you."

"You have no need to concern yourself so much about me."

"Oh, is that it?" he asked with a dry chuckle.

Holmes frowned at him, his annoyance increasing rapidly. "To be frank, I hardly see why you should 'care' so much about me. I know that I am of use to you, but all the same..."

"Is that what you think?" the Scotland Yarder asked him sharply. "You are colder than I would have given you credit for Mr. Holmes!"

"My apologies if I have served you an injustice Lestrade," he said quietly as he attempted not to wince as the sharpness of the inspector's tone caused the pain in his head to flare up again.

He frowned anew before relenting. "I had started to consider you and the doctor to be friends of mine, that is all. Perhaps I was mistaken."

"Friends?" he repeated in confusion.

"Yes! Friends, God help me!" he shook his head. "Perhaps the fault is mine. I suppose my lack of regard for Doctor Watson's welfare the other day was reason enough for you to think that I only consider you both to be useful to me."

Holmes narrowed his eyes at him. "That is a very good deduction," he remarked coldly.

"No, it was obvious and I can assure you that you do not have to be sarcastic about it," he rubbed a hand across his eyes and shook his head again. "I know it is no excuse Mr. Holmes, but I am also very tired. Over half of the Police force is ill at home and the rest of us are stretched far too thin. Add to that these murders and the panic on the streets..." he rubbed at his eyes again and blinked. "I was desperate for your help. So desperate that I forgot to think about anything else. I am truly sorry."

The consulting detective blinked slowly, taken aback by the inspector's words. "It is quite all right," he said at last.

"Hardly," he remarked with a frown. "But I shall try to ensure that it does not happen again."

"Thank you," he shivered as they stepped out into the cold air and pulled his Inverness closer.

The Scotland Yarder wrapped an arm around him. "Perhaps I should have given you one of those rugs."

He shook his head and sniffed, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket.

"Are you sure that you are not ailing?" Lestrade pressed. "Perhaps you really should forget about your experiments and rest for now."

He raised a long finger to indicate that he wanted to be given a moment and then sneezed loudly. "I..." he began with another sniff.

"Bless you," the Yarder interrupted him with a small smile.

He frowned with annoyance. "I am cold Inspector. I shall be perfectly all right when I am at home in the warm, I assure you."

"If you are sure. I can hardly order you to stay off work..."

"Then kindly keep your opinions to yourself."

The inspector gave him a knowing glance. "However, as a friend, I can advise it. You usually have a good deal more patience and tact Mr. Holmes. Surely you know that you are not yourself?"

He waved a gloved hand dismissively. "Merely fatigue."

"Perhaps," Lestrade replied quietly. After walking in silence for a little longer he stopped the consulting detective beside a hansom and assisted him to scramble inside before following.

Watson shivered as the door was opened and turned his head to smile drowsily at his friend as he joined him.

"How are you feeling old chap?" Holmes asked him quietly as he sat beside him.

"Much better I assure you," he hid a yawn behind his hand. "But very tired. Excuse me."

He patted his companion's shoulder. "Quite all right my dear fellow."

The doctor yawned again and offered him a share of the rugs.

"No Watson. Keep warm," he insisted firmly.

He shook his head. "We will both be warmer if we share our body heat."

"That is very true," Lestrade piped up helpfully. "The doctor would be a good deal warmer and so would you."

"Yes yes, all right," the detective helped Watson to position the rugs about them awkwardly.

The inspector stood quickly. "Allow me," he quickly unfolded the rugs and covered them both from their throats to their ankles, tucking the edges around them for good measure. "There," he said with a nod of satisfaction. "Is that better?"

"Thank you Inspector," the doctor acknowledged gratefully as he settled down to sleep.

"You are both welcome," he replied with a smile that was aimed pointedly at Holmes. "Try to get some rest. We are in for a long ride."

The detective did not like the idea of sleeping in front of the Yarder. It was not that he did not trust him per se, but he did not like to appear vulnerable in front of anyone. Only Watson had been permitted to see him resting and even then it was because he had taken to the sofa in their sitting room. Instead of obviously allowing himself to sleep, he adopted the position that he used when thinking and closed his eyes with a stifled yawn, hoping to appear to still be alert. He heard Lestrade give a huff of frustration and smirked to himself. The carriage started to move and he allowed the motion to lull him into a restful doze.

~SH~

For the third time that day, Holmes was awakened by Lestrade. On this occasion he kept his composure and reacted in a manner that was much more normal for him. His eyes snapped open and he lifted his head to meet the gaze of the man opposite him.

The inspector smiled warmly. "You are looking better."

"You seem surprised," he remarked.

"Relieved," he corrected before turning a glance upon their companion, who was still snoring beside the consulting detective. "Should we wake the doctor?"

Holmes considered trying to carry the doctor up the narrow stairs to their sitting room without disturbing him but thought better of it. If his friend had recovered enough during the journey his military training could cause him to react instinctively and lash out before he was aware of what was happening. Without giving the inspector a reply he gently touched his companion's shoulder. "Watson."

His friend's eyes flickered open and he turned to him. "Are we home already?" he asked drowsily, sounding heavily congested.

He squeezed his shoulder gently. "I am afraid so old chap. How are you feeling? Could you manage the stairs?"

"I feel better," the doctor told him with what Holmes had come to know as the smile that he gave when he was putting on a brave face. "I am sure that I could manage."

"All the same, I should like to assist you," he told him, helping his companion to disentangle himself from the rugs, which he set aside and left on the seat of the hansom. This done, he quickly followed the inspector from the carriage and turned to give Watson any help that he might need.

Lestrade took the keys from the detective and opened the front door, standing aside to allow him to escort his companion inside before following them into the hall and up the stairs.

Holmes quickly made his companion comfortable on the sofa and poured him a brandy. "Lestrade, are you planning on going straight back to the Yard?"

"I can stay for a moment, if you would like."

"I would appreciate it if you would ask Mrs. Hudson for some fresh water and a pot of tea, if you would not mind," he instructed with a small smile. "It would leave me to tend to Watson."

The inspector gave a quick nod.

"Of course, we can forget the tea if you would prefer a brandy," he added, causing him to turn in the doorway. "Forgive me for not offering Inspector. I was a little preoccupied."

"I understand Mr. Holmes. Tea would probably be a better choice while I am on duty anyway."

He nodded and cast a glance at the clock. The hour was not nearly as late as his body clock was telling him. "Actually, it is a little early," he remarked.

If the Scotland Yarder heard him he gave no indication.

The detective quickly turned his attention to his companion as the inspector's footsteps descended the stairs. "Can you sit up, Watson?"

"Yes," he carefully pulled himself into a sitting position and closed his eyes tiredly.

"Are you dizzy?"

The doctor groaned with frustration. "I sat up too fast."

"Probably," he agreed, despite the fact that he could not have possibly sat up any slower, and crouched beside the sofa to slip his arm around his friend. "Would you allow me to assist you?"

"It seems you have done nothing else Holmes," he muttered without turning to look him in the eye.

He frowned and cocked his head to one side as he carefully found the correct words to say. "I have treated you very badly today old chap. I was also rather thoughtless yesterday. Please my dear fellow, let me make amends in the only way that I can."

Watson nodded tiredly and submitted himself to his care without another word, sipping at the offered brandy gratefully.

"I would like you to rest my dear friend," Holmes told him quietly. "If you need anything you are to say so. Do not feel guilty, for it is entirely my fault that you have set yourself back."

"How can this be your fault?" the doctor asked him with confusion.

He shook his head and squeezed the shoulder that his long fingers were gently gripping. "I would have thought it perfectly obvious! I should never have allowed you to accompany me today. I thought as much this morning, but I am a selfish wretch at times and I wanted you to come with me. You presented your argument so beautifully that I was able to convince myself that you were very much recovered and would be perfectly all right. I was wrong, obviously. I knew that I was wrong when we were in the hansom bound for Scotland Yard, but still I allowed you to join me."

The doctor gestured for him to set the brandy aside before responding to his words. "It is not your fault Holmes. I would not have rested if you had left me at home anyway. As a matter of fact, I would probably be all the worse now for having been left."

"But why?"

"Because I would have been worried about you, naturally. You were incredibly cold when you came home yesterday and I was afraid that you might have made yourself ill. You have not exactly reassured me either."

The detective gave him the twitch of an amused smile. "I did tell you that you should not concern yourself about me."

His companion chuckled. "Concern is not a thing that a man can simply turn on and off Holmes. I am sure that you must know that, for you are clearly worried about me."

He barked a laugh and patted the doctor's shoulder. "You are right of course."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" Lestrade peeked around the door. "I've brought up the tea and water. Your housekeeper is in the process of making some soup."

"Thank you Inspector," he helped his companion to lie back and sprang to his feet. "I shall just get Watson some water. Would you be so kind as to pour a cup of tea for yourself and I?"

"Of course," the Yarder smiled at him before casting a glance toward the sofa. "How are you feeling Doctor?"

Watson coughed before answering. "Better thank you. I only needed some sleep."

The detective frowned at his friend as he helped him to sit up and take some water but remained silent.

"I am all right Holmes," the doctor insisted quietly.

He snorted. "Of course you are Watson."

Lestrade chuckled and moved to the hearth to light a fire. This done, he took to the wicker chair beside the fireplace before sipping at the drink he had prepared for himself. "Do you still want me to call by at six this evening, Mr. Holmes?" he asked.

"Yes please," he replied, feeling grateful for the change of subject. "I should like to speak with the families of the victims."

The inspector looked him over carefully before nodding. "Very well then. What will you do in the meantime?"

"I have those fibres to experiment with. They may be able to shed some light upon the area in which our little team of murderers are operating in."

He took another sip of the warming drink. "Yes, that would certainly be useful."

"Indeed it would," he agreed, setting aside his companion's empty glass and helping him to lie back. "The sooner that we can trace these men the better."

"What can I do Holmes?" his companion croaked tiredly.

He turned to him with annoyance. "You will do as you are told and rest Watson."

Lestrade laughed and set his empty cup and saucer on the mantle. "I had best be off Mr. Holmes. Thank you for the tea."

"And thank you for your assistance Inspector," he stood to shake him by the hand.

The Scotland Yarder beamed at him and clapped a hand to his shoulder. "See you at six."

"Indeed. Good afternoon."

"Afternoon Mr. Holmes," he turned to the doctor and gave him a nod. "Good evening Doctor Watson. Take good care of yourself."

There was a loud sneeze from the sofa. "Excuse me," he sniffed miserably. "I will Inspector. See you later."

"Bless you," he smiled at him. "Until this evening then."

Holmes opened the door for the Yarder and watched him descend the stairs. He then turned his attention back to his ill companion to ensure that he would be comfortable and settled while he worked. His chemistry set was already calling to him.


	15. Chapter 15

Despite the importance of the chemistry experiments that he had to conduct, the consulting detective did not get to work until he was certain that his companion would be quite comfortable on the sofa and would want for nothing. He had meant what he had said about blaming himself for the doctor's relapse and he was determined to do all that he could for him. He started by quickly fetching down the warmest of his companion's clean nightgowns from the bedroom upstairs and he then found the dressing gown and slippers which Watson had obviously put away when he had dressed that morning.

"Would you like a hot bath before you get ready for bed?" he asked his friend as he set down the clothing on the arm of the sofa and the slippers beside it.

The doctor shook his head and shivered. "No thank you Holmes. It is a nice idea, but I think I would get cold very quickly afterwards."

He nodded and touched his arm. "Will you need any help in dressing yourself for sleep? I do not mind assisting you if you require it."

Watson groaned. "I am very tired. Just let me sleep as I am."

Of course, the doctor had his pride. All the same, Holmes was not about to allow him to remain uncomfortable simply because he did not want to ask for assistance when it was needed. "Do not be absurd my dear fellow. You would be terribly uncomfortable and I can see that your trousers are wet from the snow. You should change."

His companion sneezed explosively and shivered anew.

"I rest my case," he said firmly. "Come now Watson. Sit up."

He removed his companion's under-coat, waistcoat and shirt before quickly dressing him in his nightshirt and dressing gown. He then carefully removed his shoes and socks and then his trousers without invading his privacy. "There you are," he said at last. "I trust that that was not so very unpleasant an ordeal for you."

The doctor gave him a rueful smile. "Not at all."

He smiled warmly and patted his shoulder. "I am glad. Come on then, settle down."

His companion permitted him to make him comfortable on the sofa, wrapping him in the blankets and plumping the cushions and pillows against the arm of the seat. He blew his nose and fidgeted slightly in a manner that suggested that he was trying to ease some discomfort in his leg. "Thank you Holmes."

"Not at all my dear old Watson! You have done this much for me in the past when I have needed it. Surely you remember the level of care that you have given to me?" Watson started to reply and he interrupted him with a knowing smile. "Yes, I know: you are a doctor. Hum!" he chuckled. "I do not know many doctors that wash and dress their patients. That is usually left to the nurses."

"We do not have a nurse, Holmes. What is more, I could not imagine you allowing a woman to wash and dress you."

He shook his head and grimaced. "Heavens no! Perish the thought," he took a seat on the edge of the sofa at his friend's ankles. "All the same, you go beyond your duty as a doctor, and as a friend, and I am hardly going to do any less."

He smiled tiredly and closed his eyes as a tremendous yawn overtook him. "Thank you. Excuse me."

"Rest now my dear fellow. I shall be at the table should you need anything. Do not hesitate to call me."

"Thank you," he yawned again and settled down with a weary sigh, covering his running nose with his handkerchief to try to avoid making a mess while he slept.

Holmes squeezed his arm and piled more fuel upon the fire before opening the windows. He hoped the fire would keep his friend from feeling the chill while he safeguarded him from any possible fumes from his experiments. Ready at last, he turned to his chemistry set and started to analyse the fibres that he had discovered, all the while listening carefully for any sign of distress from his ill friend. Every cough, sneeze and groan from the sofa caused him to pause in his work and creep to check on his companion.

~SH~

It was almost five in the evening when Watson sneezed himself awake and pulled himself into a sitting position with a weary groan, reaching for the jug of water on the coffee table.

Holmes was beside him in an instant, filling a glass with water for him. "How are you feeling my dear fellow?"

"Better, I think," he returned in a drowsy, congested voice. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sniffed before looking up into his companion's gaze. "Incredibly thirsty though. Was I asleep for very long?"

"You allowed me ample time to conclude my experiments," he replied with a friendly smile as he helped him to sip at the water. "We should now be able to tell our Scotland Yarders the area in which the murders are being carried out."

His companion grimaced. "It seems I am the most help to you when I am sleeping," he remarked miserably.

The smile was immediately dashed from his face and he set aside the glass for a moment. "Not at all Watson," he assured him quickly, touching his arm. He did not like this attitude at all, for he had never before seen his friend like this.

He closed his eyes and turned away.

"Why are you upsetting yourself so?" the consulting detective asked, becoming increasingly concerned. Not knowing what else to do, he started the long talk that he had forewarned his friend about while they were at Whitehall. "You have apologised to me for being unable to fend for yourself, apologised to Lestrade for disrupting this case and even went so far as to refer to yourself as a burden! Nothing that I say seems able to convince you that this is hardly your fault or that you are anything but a burden, either. I find myself at my wits' end, my dear Watson."

His friend turned back slowly and met his gaze in a hesitant manner. His eyes were suddenly bright and shining in the firelight but it was impossible to tell whether they were simply watering with the illness or tearful due to emotion.

"You know that I am a selfish man, even if you are far too kind to say as much," Holmes went on. "Surely you must know that I would not tend to you if I had no desire to do so. You have been very... good to me my dear fellow," he grimaced at the term, for he would have preferred to have been much more eloquent. Talking from the heart seemed to make the use of language harder and much more frustrating. "You are patient and... and incredibly kind. Your companionship and support means more to me than your assistance! If I simply wanted you to make a quick recovery in order to take up your role as my colleague I would have merely sent for a doctor and left you in the care of Mrs. Hudson!"

His companion winced as his voice increased in volume. "I am truly sorry Holmes. I have not been fair to you."

He took a moment to choose his words carefully and to calm himself. "You have nothing to apologise to me for old chap. I know that it is your frustration, illness and fatigue that is making you think in this way. Nobody takes illness well; especially when they are feeling as dreadful as you must be."

Watson nodded with a rueful expression. "Thank you Holmes. I am glad that at least one of us can find some patience for my current state."

"To treat you any differently would be a sin," he told his friend with his warmest smile, quoting Mrs. Hudson's words. "You always take very good care of me, whether it is deserved or not. How could I behave differently?"

The doctor blinked his eyes, causing a tear to overflow and run down his cheek.

"Your eyes are streaming," Holmes noted, wiping away the tear with a clean handkerchief. He was not about to accuse his companion of being emotional. He felt that it would be impertinent to do such a thing as he would not have appreciated it if Watson (or anyone else, for that matter) had had the gall to accuse him of showing such emotion. "Is it the brightness of the firelight?"

He raised a hand to his head to shade (or possibly hide) his eyes. "My eyes are tired, I think," he said with another sniff.

"Quite probably," he agreed. "Come now my dear chap, have some more water."

Watson sniffed again and wiped at his nose before allowing his friend to help him to drink.

There was more that the detective wanted to say, but it was clear that his companion was currently unable to partake in the conversation and he was tired of simply bombarding him with words. "When you are feeling more like yourself, I would like to discuss this matter with you. If this is simply a reaction to your current weakness and fatigue, that is all well and good and I shall not mention it again. However, if you truly believe that I am so callous that I only value you when you are particularly useful, we have a great deal of talking to do."

He pushed the glass away and shook his head. "It is not that, Holmes."

"I hope not," he squeezed his friend's shoulder. "I have said enough, I believe. We shall talk when you are your old self again."

He nodded gratefully and sipped at the water slowly when it was again brought to his lips.

The detective slipped his free arm around him and watched his expressions carefully. He wanted to offer some words of comfort and reassurance, but he had exhausted them all and was not in the habit of repeating himself. It was difficult to know what he should say in such circumstances at any rate. He satisfied himself by simply remaining at his companion's side, hoping that his support and sympathy was evident enough through his actions.

"Thank you," his companion whispered when the glass was empty and had been set aside. "I do not mean to put you through this old chap," he scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand in a manner that suggested that he was annoyed with himself. "I simply feel that I am letting you down."

"Well, you are not," Holmes told him emphatically. "You are not to blame for things that you cannot control."

The doctor nodded and leaned against him tiredly, still sniffing quietly.

He smiled at his companion and pulled him closer in a very brief, one-armed embrace. "Are you certain that there are no medications that would help?"

"I am not thinking clearly," he replied in a drowsy mumble. "I could easily give you the wrong directions and cause you to poison me. You have taken very good care of me at any rate and medicines will only ease some of my discomfort; there is nothing that could cure me. I simply have to allow this illness to run its course."

The detective shook his head and pulled him close a second time, this time maintaining the embrace for slightly longer. "I shall do all that I can for you my dear Watson. I only wish that I had some of your medical knowledge."

"You could not do very much more for me if you did," he replied with a weary smile.

"Hum," he grimaced, still feeling guilty.

Watson's smile widened. "Most doctors do not soothe their patients with their violin," he hinted quietly.

The detective chuckled. "Would you like that?"

"Yes please," he wiped at his nose. "It does help me to rest."

"Have some more water first," Holmes insisted. "I hardly want to allow you to become dehydrated. Is there anything else? Mrs. Hudson made us both some soup, if you are hungry."

"Could you hand me my journal?"

The detective frowned at him, for a moment believing that he had misheard his companion. "What the deuce do you want with your journal? If you are supposed to be resting, writing is surely not the best thing for you to do. It takes a great deal of concentration."

"Do you not want me to document this case?" his companion asked, looking up into his face with a frown.

"I want you to recover," Holmes told him firmly. "I do not like to see you so unwell. I am quite capable of committing to memory for now. I shall be happy to furnish you with the details when you are not so weary."

He nodded and looked away.

"If you do not trust yourself to give me the correct medical instructions, I very much doubt that you will be up to your usual standards where writing is concerned," the detective told him in his most gentle of tones. "I do not want you to become any more frustrated with yourself than you are already. Now, would you like some soup?"

Watson opened his mouth to reply but did not manage a single word. He hastily raised his handkerchief to his face as he instead started to cough.

"More water," he quickly poured some into his friend's glass and held it in readiness as he waited for the sudden coughing fit to come to an end, gently rubbing small circles on his back in the hope that it would help. "Is your throat still dry?"

Unable to answer with words, he nodded.

"You should have asked for more water, rather than going on about that journal of yours and case notes," the consulting detective told him as he continued to rub his back. "I do wish that you would take better care of yourself Watson."

The coughing eventually subsided and he lowered his handkerchief with a grimace. "Sorry Holmes," he croaked.

He tutted and raised the glass to his companion's lips without a word. He was becoming tired of trying to reassure him.

"You are angry," the doctor noted when his glass had been emptied and set aside.

Holmes closed his eyes and rubbed at his temple wearily. "No," he said at last. "I am not angry Watson. I am concerned and perhaps frustrated, but I am not angry. Most certainly not with you."

He frowned up at him, clearly waiting for him to explain.

"I am frustrated with my inability to care for you as well as you are able to tend to me," he admitted after a long moment, looking away. "You would know exactly how to react or what would be the most useful course of action instinctively, while I find myself at a loss almost constantly. I feel that it is I that owe you the apologies my dear fellow."

"Holmes," he sighed and rested his head against him. "You are doing the best that you can and that is all that anyone can do. It helps a great deal just to know that you are here."

The detective gazed back at him, surprised that his presence alone could offer such comfort to his companion. He had been feeling worse than useless, particularly so since the relapse. "I am glad my dear chap," he said at last, squeezing his shoulder gently.

Watson pulled away suddenly and raised his handkerchief to his face.

"Are you cold?" Holmes asked, seeing a shiver go through his companion.

The doctor shook his head and jerked forward with a forceful sneeze. "Not particularly. I am still getting chills. I do not know whether the chills are causing me to sneeze or the urge to sneeze causes the chills, but the two do seem to go together."

He pulled him close and rested his cheek against his friend's forehead, partly to check for fever and partly in an attempt to offer further comfort. "You feel rather warm to me," he noted, quickly propping him up against the back of the sofa and reaching for the washcloth that was still sitting in the bowl of room-temperature water. "What the deuce have I done?"

"You did exactly as I asked you," his companion reminded him. "I repeat Holmes, you did nothing wrong. I wanted to accompany you. I hate to laze around here all day. I did quite enough of that when I was recovering from the Afghan War."

"Watson," he shook his head and dabbed at his friend's forehead gently. "Recovering is not 'lazing around' and you of all people should know that. I know well enough that you abhor inactivity but you should know better than to unnecessarily vex yourself in this way. Please my dear fellow, rest."

He nodded and closed his eyes.

"Thank you. Now, I shall ask you one last time: are you hungry? I believe Mrs. Hudson has had a chicken and vegetable soup simmering for the last two hours."

The doctor shook his head. "No thank you Holmes. I am not at all hungry."

"Not at all?" he repeated, becoming concerned. "You should be starving! We have had nothing to eat for..." he cast a glance at the clock, "six hours and we did not have very much for breakfast."

"I think I am too tired to feel hungry. Please Holmes, let me sleep."

"Of course my dear fellow," he said gently as he stood to retrieve his violin. He then sat beside his friend and allowed him to rest his head on his shoulder for a moment. "Would you like to lie down Watson? I hardly want to add a stiff and painful neck to your discomfort."

He shook his head and moved closer to his companion, all but cuddling into his side.

"I believe you are feeling cold," Holmes remarked, preparing to stand again.

Watson groaned. "The fire can wait a moment."

"No, it cannot," he retorted with mild annoyance. "You will become worse if I allow you to get too cold."

The doctor relented and allowed him to stand, resting his head against the back of the sofa with a weary sigh.

Holmes handed him the half-finished glass of brandy that he had poured for him earlier. "Drink this. It will help to warm you."

"Thank you."

He tended to the fire quickly while his friend drank, not wanting to keep him up any longer than was necessary.

"Lestrade will be here in half an hour or so," Watson noted drowsily.

"Yes," he agreed, casting a glance at the clock before returning to the sofa. "What of it old chap?"

Watson fidgeted slightly. "Might I join you?"

He stopped short and stared at him in disbelief. "No," he told him abruptly the moment that he found his voice. "If you are too done up for food, you are in no fit state to join me. You will rest. I shall not be very long, I am sure."

The doctor groaned miserably and closed his eyes.

Holmes shook his head and rubbed at his temple, closing his eyes and drawing a long, weary breath. "I am growing tired of this Watson. As a doctor, you know that you should allow yourself time to rest and recuperate. You would tell me as much."

"And you would tell me that stagnation does not aid your recovery at all," he replied. "Besides, I very much doubt that much harm could come to me in a warm house..."

"The answer is no all the same. You are to behave yourself and rest. Mrs. Hudson will tell me if you do not. Ah! That sounds like Lestrade's rather distinctive knock. He must have set out early indeed to have made such good time in this dreadful weather. Will you be all right until I return old chap?"

His companion nodded and stretched himself out on the sofa with a rather grumpy moan. "Yes Holmes. I am sure I shall be quite all right. I hope that you and Lestrade find out all that you need."

"Thank you Watson," he sat at his friend's ankles and squeezed his arm, offering what comfort he could before the Scotland Yarder interrupted them. "I hope that you are soon well enough to accompany me without setting yourself back so. I miss you terribly."

The doctor met his gaze slowly. He seemed very moved by the words. "Thank you Holmes. I shall try to rest while you are gone."

"Splendid!" he gave his arm one final squeeze and then stood to retrieve his coat, hat, muffler and stick. This done, he ensured that he had clean handkerchiefs in one coat pocket and his gloves in the other.

Lestrade stepped inside as he was pulling on his coat. "All set, Mr. Holmes?"

"Very nearly," he smiled at him. "Just a moment, Inspector."

"Of course," he turned to Watson. "How are you...? Oh. The doctor is asleep."

Holmes gave a weary sigh as he wrapped his muffler about his neck and pulled on his gloves. "You have no idea how much relief that knowledge brings me. He has become a rather difficult patient."

"I can't say I blame him, Mr. Holmes. He was in the Army before he met you and the work that you do together is full of action. I doubt the poor chap knows what to do with himself."

"Probably not," he agreed, casting his companion a sympathetic glance. He shook himself from his reverie and opened the door. "Come Inspector. I do not want to be late."

The two descended the stairs quietly and stepped out into the dark, cold evening. They were soon well on their way.


	16. Chapter 16

Holmes was ready to leap from the carriage before it had even pulled up in Kensington and he addressed Lestrade with a bright smile as the Yarder joined him on the pavement. He was determined to prove to the inspector that his unusual behaviour had only been down to fatigue and that he was his old self again, despite the fact that he still was very much in need of more sleep. They had discussed the questions that they would ask and went over everything as they travelled. Neither of them had thought it wise to mention anything in regard to murder, as there was no indication as yet that it was the daughter of the Sinclairs whose mutilated body had been discovered.

The Scotland Yarder returned his beaming smile and offered him his arm. "You feel better now that we are beginning to get somewhere," he remarked cheerfully. "You always do."

"Yes, I do feel much better," he replied with satisfaction before giving the inspector an amused chuckle. "I see that you have been comparing notes with Watson."

He grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can assure you that we do not gossip," he told him. "We socialise when you are out of town on occasion, that is all. As a close friend of yours, he does have a tendency to talk of you, you know. As you are prone to do about him, as it happens."

"I did not realise that I spoke of Watson overly much Lestrade."

The Yarder chuckled at his expression. "Well, you do. If I did not know better, I might be inclined to believe that the good doctor has somehow managed to melt that icy heart of yours."

He sniffed slightly, examining the house before them thoughtfully as they stepped through the gate before giving his reply. "I would not go so far as to say that, but his companionship and support has done me some good," he smirked. "For my heart to be affected in any way, I would first have to have one."

Lestrade snorted with suppressed laughter and squeezed his arm, obviously deciding to pay his words no heed at all. "We shall make this brief, Mr. Holmes," he said instead, changing the subject. "I know that you must be worried about your friend and colleague. To tell the truth, I am as well."

He addressed him with a small smile of gratitude before pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. The cold air had started to aggravate his nose and sinuses.

The inspector stopped walking and held him steady while he sneezed, making sure that he would not slip in the snow while he was off-balance. "Bless you. No, I certainly will not be keeping you any longer than necessary tonight. You are catching something, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Probably the damned influenza that has been doing the rounds at the Yard. Oh, bless you again! Are you all right?"

Holmes had almost fallen despite his help due to the force of the second sneeze. He straightened slowly with a shiver before blowing his nose. "Yes, perfectly. It is the chill of the air Inspector."

"Yes, it probably is not helping you very much," he replied with a knowing smile as they started to walk again.

"Lestrade..." he sniffed and frowned at the Yarder.

The smile broadened in an irritating manner. "I have been out with you in the cold before, but this is the first time that I have heard you sneeze like this. Just as well, too. A sudden noise at the wrong moment could prove fatal in our work."

He stopped in order to sneeze a third time and grimaced.

"And bless you again! I am starting to think that you should have stayed indoors by a good fire."

"Lestrade, I can assure you that I feel quite all right at the moment. If I am falling ill, I should get on with it before I am unfit to work. You have said yourself that you are stretched far too thinly already and time is of the essence."

The Yarder squeezed his arm gently as they started to walk again. "I appreciate that, but I hardly want you to end up ill with pneumonia on Scotland Yard's account! I feel guilty enough about Doctor Watson's condition. I should have realised that he was putting on a brave face. In fact, I should have insisted on taking him home regardless of his arguments, but he kept on assuring us..."

"Illness is not our line Inspector," he interrupted quickly. He had not realised that the man beside him had also been feeling guilty and, somehow, the knowledge made him feel more at ease with the Scotland Yarder. "Watson knows that only too well. He knew exactly what he was doing when he continuously insisted that he was all right," he sniffed again and hunched his shoulders, stuffing his gloved hands into his pockets as he tried to keep from shivering.

"All the same, I feel I owe you both an apology."

Holmes withdrew his hands from the comparative warmth of his pockets to blow his nose again quietly. "It is quite all right Lestrade."

The inspector gave his arm another squeeze as they reached the front of the house and climbed the front steps together. He then released his arm to ring the doorbell. "If you start to feel poorly, say something. I mean it, Mr. Holmes; I do not want your health on my conscience."

He quirked an eyebrow at him and smiled. "Of course Inspector. I must have a care at any rate for Watson's sake. He is not well enough to tend to me, but that would not keep him from trying."

He grimaced at his words and nodded. "I had not thought of that. You are absolutely right, of course."

The detective did not mention that he was also concerned that he would not be able to care for his friend if he were to become as severely ill as the doctor had been of late. He was not in the habit of showing concern or affection before all and sundry and he was certainly not about to reveal that side of his nature to the Yarder any more than he had been forced to do already. He stamped his feet and sniffed. "It is damned cold," he muttered instead.

Lestrade touched his arm lightly. "Are you all right?"

He nodded and grimaced, plunging his hands into his pockets once more. The chill of the night had an intensity to it that penetrated his warm outer garments and clung to his exposed skin and hair. His face stung with the icy chill and it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay still and maintain any level of control over his shivering. He could feel his teeth starting to chatter and attempted to disguise the fact.

The inspector was just beginning to ask him if he was sure that he was all right when the front door was opened by the butler that he had seen talking with the Yarder earlier that day.

"Inspector Lestrade?" the man asked, looking from one man to the other before settling on the inspector.

"I am indeed," he replied with a nod of his head. "We spoke earlier, Mr. Thomson, and you informed me that I should return at half past seven this evening. I did say that I might well have a Mr. Sherlock Holmes accompanying me."

Thomson nodded and turned a cursory glance in the consulting detective's direction. "I suppose you had better come in and await the return of Mr. Sinclair and his wife in the drawing room. If you would walk this way..."

Holmes followed the butler into the drawing room beside the Scotland Yarder and took a seat before the fire while Lestrade stood beside him.

"Would you gentlemen like a drink while you wait?" Thomson asked them.

Lestrade rubbed his hands, which were red from the cold, together and nodded. "I'd like a cup of tea, please. Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes please," he sniffed and leaned closer to the fire. He wasn't particularly thirsty, but a hot cup would certainly feel wonderful in his near-frozen hands. While they waited for their drinks, he took to smoking the pipe that he had brought with him, feeling glad that he had the opportunity to smoke without worrying about the harm that it might do to his companion.

~SH~

They had only just been presented with their tea when the Sinclairs returned to their home. Holmes listened intently to their voices as they spoke in the hall. He heard Thomson inform them that there were two men waiting for them in the drawing room.

"Who are they, Thomson?" Mr. Sinclair asked rather abruptly. "And what is it that they want?"

"Inspector Lestrade and his friend Sherlock Holmes, Sir," the butler replied. "They are here to talk to you about your daughter."

"Perhaps they have found something!" Mrs. Sinclair's voice gasped with excitement, causing Holmes to grimace. The last thing that he wanted was a hysterical mother to have to calm. "Oh George...!"

Mr. Sinclair was obviously a practical man. "I do hope so dearest," his voice replied in a gentle manner. "But we should not get our hopes up too high. It has been almost a week since we last saw her and the Police have found nothing until now. They could simply want more information and hope that we can provide it. Beth, do not take on so," he groaned as the woman started to sob. "I am only advising you not to get your hopes up just yet. Now, would you like to accompany me into the drawing room? I shall understand if this is too difficult for you."

"Yes," his wife replied quietly as she calmed her sobs and sniffed. "Yes, I should like to speak with Mr. Holmes and the inspector."

"We must approach this very gently Lestrade," Holmes reminded the inspector quietly before the Sinclairs entered the room. "We do not have Watson with us to assist with calming hysterical women."

The Yarder chuckled quietly.

He gave him a questioning frown and turned his attention to the door as the Sinclairs entered the room.

Mr. George Sinclair was tall and straight with dark hair and deep brown eyes. He was of medium build and was smartly dressed with a handlebar moustache. He strode into the room and addressed both men with a quick nod as he stepped forward to shake hands in a firm manner. He made no attempt to hide his mild annoyance when the consulting detective remained seated when he approached and shook him by the hand from his chair at the fireside.

Mrs. Beth Sinclair was wearing a midnight blue dress made of crushed silk with a matching fascinator. She had curly blonde hair and blue eyes and was very slightly built. She clearly lacked her husband's confidence and was much more retiring in her ways, for she crept meekly into the room in her husband's wake while scrunching a frilled handkerchief in her fingers. Rather than shaking hands, she merely bobbed her head slightly at Holmes and Lestrade in turn, giving them each a nervous, tearful smile as she did so.

Holmes felt himself tense slightly and turned his attention to the fire as he straightened his slipping façade. These people hoped that they had news and the only news that they might have was the worst sort. He took comfort in the knowledge that they did not know whether Miss Sinclair was alive or dead yet and resolved that she would be found if she lived and that her murderers would be brought to justice if not.

The inspector was still on his feet, having risen from his chair to shake hands with the man of the house. He resumed his seat when Sinclair gestured for him to be seated and cleared his throat. "I am sorry to bother you when you have been out all day," he began politely. "But Mr. Holmes and I are working a case that may be related to your daughter's disappearance and we have a few questions to ask."

"Of course," the man of the house responded with a slight nod as he poured himself a whisky. "Please, ask all the questions you need."

"Can you tell us where your daughter works?" the Scotland Yarder asked.

He turned from pouring his drink to frown at him. "We have already answered that Inspector."

"George, what harm can it do to answer the question again?" his wife asked him before giving the reply herself. "She works in Mayfair."

"And how does she go to work every morning? By cab?"

She nodded. "Yes."

Holmes sipped at his tea and cleared his throat. "Was there anything unusual in her manner on the lead up to her disappearance? Did she seem troubled in any way?"

Mrs. Sinclair shook her head and raised her handkerchief to dab at her eyes. "No. She was her usual, cheerful self. She enjoyed her work and always smiled when she bid us a good day and left. The morning was just like any other."

He smiled at her and gave her his thanks before asking the next question. "Do you have a recent photograph of her?"

"Yes, we do," she sniffed and wiped at her nose delicately. "There is one in the sitting room. If you will excuse me, I shall get it for you."

"Thank you Mrs. Sinclair; that would be invaluable to our investigation."

Mr. Sinclair frowned at them as his wife left the room. "What is it that you are investigating?"

Lestrade shook his head. "We are not at liberty to discuss it Sir. Just rest assured that, should our inquiries be related to this case, it will mean that my men and I shall be working with the team that is already doing all they can to locate your daughter. We will not rest until she is found."

"Thank you Inspector," he replied with a stiffness that told of a man doing his utmost to maintain his composure.

Holmes was about to offer his own words of assurance when a sudden chill ran up his spine and caused an urge to sneeze to present itself. He quickly pulled his handkerchief from the pocket that he had stowed it within upon entering the house and removing his overcoat. Covering his mouth and nose, he gave vent into the cloth with more violence than he would have liked.

"Bless you," the Scotland Yarder said quietly, while his expression said a great deal more.

He waved a hand dismissively and quirked an eyebrow at him. "I am perfectly all right Inspector," he assured him curtly before turning back to Mr. Sinclair with a suppressed shiver. "Would you have a recent photograph that we can take with us? It would be extremely useful to be able to see what she looks like now, but if we could have an image of her to show to those that we question it could make all the difference. I doubt that you shall want to part with the one that you have on display in your living room, however."

"If it will help you to find our daughter, you can take what you want!" the man declared. "Nothing would mean more to us than her safe return, Mr. Holmes."

He nodded his understanding and gave him a fleeting, reassuring smile. "Of course Mr. Sinclair. Of course."

The door opened at that moment and Mrs. Sinclair returned with a brass-framed photograph. She handed it to the Scotland Yarder. "This is the most recent picture that we have Inspector Lestrade."

"Thank you," he said as he took it from her and studied it.

"We should be off Inspector," Holmes remarked, standing quickly. "We have taken up quite enough of the Sinclairs' time and I am sure that they would like to have their supper unhindered."

Mrs. Sinclair looked from one to the other and back again. "Would you not like to stay? We could easily provide two extra plates at the table. Is that not so George?"

"Of course," he seconded with a smile.

"Thank you," Lestrade said tactfully. "But we both have duties to attend to. Our work is never done, is that not so Mr. Holmes?"

He smiled at him. "Indeed Inspector."

They were shown out into the hall by the butler, who proceeded to help them to redress in their outer garments. He then opened the door for them, bade them a good night and shut it behind them as they stepped out into the clear, frosty night.

"The stars are particularly bright tonight," Lestrade remarked. "They always are when it is especially cold. We are in for a hard frost before dawn."

The consulting detective shivered and pulled a fresh handkerchief from his coat pocket. His nose was stinging with a violent urge to sneeze. He closed his eyes and came to a halt as it became increasingly difficult to resist. He felt the Scotland Yarder wrap an arm around him and hold him steady as before. He resented the offered assistance, but he wanted to fall head first into a snow drift even less and so did not attempt to pull away.

"Bless you," he heard the man beside him say quietly when he had given vent and as a result started to shiver anew. "Come along Mr. Holmes, back to your warm fire at Baker Street."

There was no point in insisting that he was perfectly all right by this time. He knew that he was succumbing just as well as the (currently) infuriating inspector did. All the same, he was not feeling particularly unwell and the only indication that anything was amiss so far was the increasingly violent sneezing. He did feel dreadfully tired, but anyone would have after the week that he had had.

"Are you and the doctor going to be all right?" Lestrade asked as he helped him to scramble inside the hansom and make himself comfortable.

He nodded and sniffed. "I assure you Inspector, I am only cold. The weather is freezing tonight, as you seh... said yourss... your..." he stiffened and stared straight ahead with his handkerchief poised at the ready in his hands which rested on his lap. He was determined to suppress this latest urge, if only to prove a point. His nose stung and his eyes started to water but he somehow kept his control. "The weather is freezing tonight, as you said yourself," he said once he felt sure that he could complete the sentence without being forced to sneeze.

The inspector frowned at him and tapped the roof of the carriage, signalling that they were seated and ready to move off. "Yes, I know that it is bitter tonight," was all that he said before falling silent.

Holmes stifled a yawn and turned to watch the streets that shuffled past as their hansom rattled its way towards Baker Street. Tired as he was, he hoped that Watson was much improved and would sleep through the night without requiring anything. They both desperately needed a long, uninterrupted night's sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

_**I was not all that sure about this chapter. I found it very hard to write...**_

Even in the comparative warmth of the carriage, both Holmes and Lestrade were freezing cold and their breath formed wreaths of steam in front of them. The inspector laid a rug over his legs and handed the rest of them to the man opposite him.

"Thank you," Holmes wrapped himself up and curled into the corner with a shiver. His head was beginning to ache from breathing the cold air and his throat was becoming dry. He could hardly wait to be home.

The snow on the pavements had turned to packs of ice that made walking extremely dangerous by the time the hansom pulled up at 221B Baker Street. The moon shone down through a big halo that made it look as if it had more than doubled in size.

The consulting detective turned to the Scotland Yarder as he prepared to climb out into the biting cold. "Would you like to come in for a moment?" he asked. "I can offer you a warming drink and a hot fire."

"Very kind of you Mr. Holmes, but I would not want to disturb the doctor. Anyway, I've got an early start tomorrow and I'm all but done."

He nodded. "Then I shall bid you a good night Inspector."

"Good night," he returned with a small smile. "If I were you, I'd have a hot toddy and change my clothes before you even think about anything else; you've done nothing but shiver and sneeze tonight."

Holmes ignored the advice and turned his back on the Yarder without a word. He hopped down quickly and picked his way to the front door, doing his utmost to avoid the most treacherous patches of pavement. He let himself into the porch without a backward glance; it was hardly the weather to stand about, whether he wanted to or not, and he was eager to warm up. He took the stairs quickly as he unwound his muffler and removed his gloves, grateful just to be home again. He had almost reached the landing when there was a crash from the living room and he leapt up the remaining stairs two at a time before practically flying across the landing and bursting into the sitting room.

Watson looked up at him rather sheepishly from the floor in front of the sofa, where he had obviously fallen moments before.

"Are you hurt?" he demanded anxiously as he hurried to his companion's side. "What happened?"

He shivered slightly as the detective put an arm around him and carefully lifted his head and shoulders off the floor. "I woke to find that you were still gone and tried to stand, but I had an attack of vertigo and my leg would not take my weight."

"You should not have attempted to stand without assistance!" he told him with annoyance. "You are still very ill old chap."

The doctor shuddered and shifted so that he was sitting on his good leg. "I did not have very much choice in the matter Holmes. I have to pay a visit... rather urgently."

Holmes grimaced and apologised profusely as he lifted his friend into his arms. Of course he would have to relieve himself by this time! "Why did you not ask me for assistance before I left you?" he asked quietly.

"Lestrade was here," he replied without meeting his gaze. "I did not feel the need anyway and so I thought that I would be all right. Although... I think I was probably too tired to be aware of any other of my requirements."

"Watson, you should have asked me anyway! I would normally have insisted had you not, but I did not think of it. It should have been obvious that you would have to go again before long; especially with all the water that I have insisted on giving to you."

Another violent shiver rippled through him and and he squirmed awkwardly in his friend's arms. "Can we discuss this when I am not so uncomfortable?" he asked in a strained voice. "It is taking all of my concentration not to... to..." he shifted again and squeezed his legs together to the best of his ability, "make a mess."

"I am terribly sorry my dear fellow," he told him gently, resisting the temptation to speed up as it would probably only serve to add to his companion's discomfort. Instead he kept his movements as smooth as he possibly could. "It should have occurred to me that it would be asking rather a lot of you for me to expect you to wait for so long under the current circumstances. I shall not put you through this again."

The tremors were becoming regular now and the doctor's brow glistened with sweat when he looked down at him again. By all appearances he was approaching a state of panic.

"Keep calm old fellow," he advised him, ensuring that his steps remained smooth and even so as not to jolt his friend's bladder. "We are almost there. Just hold on for two more minutes."

"I am not sure that I can," he whispered in an apologetic tone.

He felt terrible for his companion. "If you are unable to, it is all right," he assured him. "You are not to blame."

He grimaced and tensed, biting at his lip. "Holmes..."

"Are you in pain Watson?" he asked anxiously, though he was not sure what he could do about it if he was. "I do not want you to hurt yourself."

The doctor shook his head and grimaced again. He was trembling and looked close to tears. "No, but... Oh God...! Holmes, put me down!"

He shook his head firmly and kicked the bathroom door open. He was shaking slightly himself, for he hated to see his companion suffering in a manner that could have so easily been avoided and he hardly wanted to watch him humiliate himself. "Just a little longer."

His friend gave a violent sneeze at that moment and then made a sound that he might have believed to be a whimper if he thought him capable of it. He felt him tense and shudder anew as he begged to be put down. "It is too late Holmes," he whispered anxiously.

"All right old chap," he quickly took him over to the lavatory and held him above it as the inevitable happened. He spoke to him gently, saying the first thing that came to mind as he tried to reassure and comfort him. "It is not your fault," he found himself repeating. "You did remarkably well under the circumstances."

He sobbed under his breath and stared up at the detective through trembling, tearful eyes.

"I know," he said sympathetically. "I know that this is distressing. All the same, you must know that you are not to blame. I gave you rather a lot to drink and did not consider the obvious consequences before I left you. The fault is mine my dear fellow; I should have known better."

Watson rested his head against the detective's chest wearily as he finally stopped fighting his body and relaxed in his friend's arms. "I am so sorry," he whispered with a shaking, sobbing sigh.

"It is all right," he repeated gently. "You are not to blame. You did well to avoid making a mess in our sitting room in my absence," he shook his head and grimaced. "You have already pointed out that illness can make it rather difficult to control a full bladder; especially with the extra pressure that coughs and sneezes can put on the abdomen. You know as well as I do that this is not your fault."

He nodded and sobbed again. "It does not make me feel any better about it."

"No, I am sure that it does not old chap," he replied quietly. "But you have managed to avoid a disaster and I can put this right easily enough."

He closed his eyes with a groan. "What will Mrs. Hudson say?"

Holmes sighed and squeezed his shoulder. "For one thing, Mrs. Hudson is a sensible, practical woman. She would know that you are not to blame. She would probably give me a good talking to, however," he gave him a small, rueful smile. "Which is no more than I deserve."

"I would prefer it if she did not know," the doctor whispered, grimacing. "It is bad enough that you had to be a witness."

He gave his shoulder another squeeze. "There is no need for her to know," he assured him. "I shall thoroughly rinse your clothes before I put them in the laundry basket; which is exactly what I would do had you vomited over them. Mrs. Hudson will not ask what happened because she will think that you have been sick. The solution is a very simple one."

He nodded and calmed slightly. "Thank you Holmes."

"I should like to know why you think I deserve your thanks!" he snorted, shaking his head. "I should not have to do this in the first place. Your current suffering could easily have been avoided if I were a little more attentive in my care."

"I can see that you are as upset as I am," his companion replied quietly. "You did not intend for this to happen and you are very angry with yourself. What is more, I am rather grateful that you are so very practical."

He smiled at his kindly friend and gently set him down on the seat of the lavatory. "I had better get you out of these wet clothes," he remarked quietly by way of a warning. He then removed the soiled clothing and tossed the items into the basin before running both taps. This done, he wrapped a large towel about his friend's shoulders, knowing that he was bound to be feeling the cold. "I shall get you a change of clothes before I run the bath," he told him. "I do not want to cause you further suffering and I shall not allow you to become chilled."

He gave a weary nod of his head and leant back against the lid of the lavatory seat carefully.

"Are you still dizzy?" the detective asked with concern.

"A little," he replied. "I had hoped that I would be in better condition by the time you returned."

He patted his shoulder gently. "Do not distress yourself Watson. You have just tested your endurance more than either of us would have liked; it is little wonder that you are tired and weak as a result."

His companion nodded and closed his eyes.

"Do not fall asleep," Holmes instructed him firmly before leaving him to bound up the stairs to Watson's bedroom and retrieve some clean clothes. He returned to find his companion sitting in exactly the position that he had been in when he had left him. He touched his shoulder lightly and set down the fresh clothes before preparing to assist him in bathing.

~SH~

The doctor sighed gratefully as he was set down on the sofa and wrapped up once more. "Thank you."

He took his hand and squeezed it tentatively. "You are welcome my dear fellow. I only hope that I have not done you any lasting damage."

He grimaced. "I could have used the bowl that you left me with in case the nausea returned," he said quietly. "But I did not like to do such a thing in our sitting room and I would have been afraid that someone might walk in and see me in any case."

"Oh Watson," he perched on the edge of the sofa and gave his hand another squeeze. "I would not have been able to bring myself to do such a thing either. I am truly sorry that you had to even consider it."

His companion coughed and rubbed at his throat.

"Are you thirsty?" he asked with fresh concern. "I imagine that you have had nothing to drink since you first started to feel uncomfortable."

"And you would be right Holmes," he replied with another cough and grimace.

He poured him a glass of water and helped him to sit up and drink it. "A fine friend that I am," he remarked bitterly.

The doctor shook his head and pushed the glass away weakly. "Please Holmes, stop that. I should have asked you for assistance when I realised that the inspector would be calling soon, instead of being ridiculous and asking you for my journal or demanding that you allow me to accompany you."

He gave him a small smile before raising the glass to his lips once more, deciding to change the subject in the most subtle way that he could manage. "The inspector should be able to cope on his own for a few days, so you shall not have to worry about his intruding on us and getting in the way for a while. However, I have asked him to include me in the chase. I hope that you shall be well enough to join us by that time."

"Do you think there will be more murders in the meantime?" the doctor asked once he had finished the drink.

He considered the question carefully as he set aside the empty glass. "It is going to be difficult for them to carry on as they have been. I told the inspector the area in which they are working from and that is going to be watched very carefully, for one thing. For another, everyone travelling on the London Underground will have heard of the murders by this time and will be much more alert than usual. They may be able to carry out another murder, but they shall have to be extremely cautious."

"You are right of course," his companion remarked.

"Of course," he smiled at him fondly. "What is more, Lestrade and Gregson are both on the case and their petty rivalry will make them even more alert than usual. It should not be long until we have the culprits within our grasp."

The doctor smiled at the thought before giving a tremendous yawn.

"You should sleep old fellow," Holmes told him gently. "You must be exhausted."

"I am a little tired," his friend admitted sleepily. "But you have only just returned and I should like to know how you and Lestrade have fared."

"Ah, that's my Watson," he chuckled quietly. "Never mind how tired you are or how dreadful you may be feeling; you are much too interested in the case!"

He groaned and shook his head. "I have had very little to do with this case and I want to know what I have missed. Surely that is understandable?"

"Perfectly," the detective assured him. "But all the same, I think you should rest now. I shall play for you first, if you would like; I believe I owe you a rendition."

"That's bribery Holmes," his companion mumbled drowsily with another cavernous yawn.

He laughed quietly and took up his violin from its perch on the coffee table, scattering various items as he did so. "Hum, if you say so my dear Watson," he replied in an innocent tone before playing one of the doctor's favourite pieces.

He watched as his friend listened intently to the music, his half-open eyes following his movements as a small smile of appreciation graced his face. As the detective moved into one of his own pieces, a soothing but intricate rendition, Watson's eyelids became heavier still and eventually closed. Soon after he started to snore. He smiled to himself as he set his instrument down when the piece had reached its finale, before adding more fuel to the fire. "Good rest Watson," he whispered as he drew the blankets up to his friend's chin and tucked them around him. "May we both fare better tomorrow."

Feeling weary now that his companion was all right and sleeping, Holmes took to his armchair beside the hearth with a yawn. He watched his friend for a long moment, trying his utmost to gauge whether he had become any worse by the sound of his snores. He was unable to do so, though he had little doubt that his companion would be able to tell with very little effort indeed. Watson moaned suddenly and shifted in his sleep with a grimace. Concerned that he might be able to sense his eyes staring at him, the detective shook himself and left his chair.

Holmes went through to the bathroom to tend to the discarded clothing that had been left there in soak. He did as he had assured his companion and rinsed them carefully, ensuring that they would not begin to smell or become stained. This done, he draped them over the side of the bath to dry out enough to be put in with the rest of the laundry. He yawned and stretched his weary limbs before retreating to his bedroom to wash his hands and face before preparing for bed.

Getting ready for bed proved to be difficult. Even with the gas turned right up, the room was almost too dark for him to see by; his eyes felt gritty and tired and did not seem to be working properly. His arms were also heavy and his fingers clumsy, causing him to struggle with buttons and laces. When he eventually pulled on his nightshirt and tossed aside his discarded clothing, he was ready to collapse onto his bed and sleep for a week. "I can't," he told himself firmly. "Watson might need me."

With a great deal of effort and still more willpower, he pulled his sheets and blanket from his less than tidy bed and dragged himself back through to the sitting room. He pulled his covers about himself somewhat haphazardly and threw himself into his armchair beside the hearth, curling up with a weary, grateful sigh. "Good night my dear Watson," he mumbled between yawns as his eyelids began to droop. "Do not hesitate to wake me, should you need me; it is why I am here."


	18. Chapter 18

Holmes awoke slowly to find that he had been tucked up, the fire had been tended to and that fresh water had been left on the coffee table for himself and his companion. He smiled to himself as it crossed his mind that he should probably thank Mrs. Hudson for her kindness at some point. He stretched his aching arms and legs and stood slowly, assessing his body as it protested carefully. He felt better now that he had had some sleep, but he could feel the illness lurking, trying to drag him down. Well, it might succeed eventually but he was not about to give in without a fight! He was determined to see Watson well and capture the murderers that he and the Yard were pursuing first. After that, the wretched illness could do as it pleased!

The detective checked on his snoring companion and adjusted his blankets, which had slipped floorwards while he had slept, before going through to the bathroom, leaving the door open as he went through his morning routine. This done, he picked up the now dry clothing from the bath and took the items into his bedroom, tossing them onto the top of the laundry basket before he threw on some clothes without bothering to plan an outfit. All the while he kept an ear cocked for a call from his friend, but he was still snoring loudly from his place on the sofa when he emerged again a few minutes later.

Taking every precaution to avoid waking the sleeping doctor, he approached the sofa and did a quick assessment of him with his eyes. His face was pale and flushed and his blankets provided evidence of a restless sleep, for once again they were more on the floor than covering his body. Holmes gathered them up and pulled them over his companion again, tucking them under his shivering form as before. He noted that he was hot to the touch and so wrung out and reapplied the cloth from the bowl beside him. Watson moaned and gave a violent shiver as the cooling cloth touched his hot forehead but settled down again without waking. Well, he could do no more at the moment; he would simply have to leave him for now and allow him to wake when he was ready.

A matter of minutes later, Mrs. Hudson knocked at the sitting room door and peeped in without waiting for an invitation. She smiled when Holmes stood from his chair and approached her. "I thought I heard someone up and about Sir. Good morning! How are you feeling?"

"I am quite all right," he replied somewhat gruffly. "And how are you?"

The smile faded at his tone. "Very well Mr. Holmes, thank you for asking. Is there anything that I can do for you or the doctor?"

"My apologies," he said quietly, removing the icy undertones from his voice. He rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I seem to have a short temper this morning."

"You are not very well," she replied tenderly. "I could see that last night when I called in before I retired to bed. You were shivering in your sleep and your hands were like ice."

He grimaced. "You really should stay well away," he told her.

"I could not do that Sir. No more than you could abandon your friend and housemate," she smiled at him. "Besides, I shall be quite all right. I am stronger than I look."

"Indeed," he chuckled quietly. "I do not doubt it; very few people would survive having me lodging here, yet you manage very well."

She laughed and patted his arm. "I would not swap you or the doctor for anyone Mr. Holmes!"

"Thank you," he cast a quick glance over his shoulder as a groan sounded from the sofa. "I think my patient is awake. Would you provide some fresh water and a pot of tea for two? No, do not look at me like that! I am feeling quite all right at the moment and I plan to take full advantage while I can. I expect Watson will continue to have toast for breakfast at the moment, but I shall ask him while you get our drinks."

"Very well Sir. I am sure you know what you want better than I do. I shall be back in a moment."

He thanked her again gratefully and closed the door before running back to Watson's side.

"Hello Holmes," the doctor mumbled as he rubbed at his eyes. "Have you been awake for very long?"

"Oh no, a matter of minutes," he replied with a flick of his hand and a small smile. "How are you feeling old fellow? Any better?"

"I think so."

He frowned at him. "That could not have been any less convincing or reassuring if you had tried Watson. Answer me honestly, if you please."

He winced and moved a hand to his abdomen. "I have a stomach ache."

"Ah yes, I think I can see why you would not wish for me to know..." he shook his head and touched his arm. "My apologies. I shall not be so thoughtless again."

"It was not entirely your fault Holmes," he began with another poorly-concealed wince.

"Perhaps not, but you are in my care. You would never have allowed such a thing to have happened to me and you know that as well as I do."

The doctor groaned quietly. "Can we please just leave the subject alone?"

"Yes, of course," he murmured, realising that his companion was still embarrassed about the pevious night's incident. "Aside from the abdominal pain, how are you feeling?"

"I am still dreadfully weak."

He nodded and offered him a sympathetic smile. "Feverish as well."

"The fever can come and go for a week or more and the fatigue can remain for even longer..."

Holmes gaped at him. "You failed to mention that yesterday!" he snapped at his companion. "I suppose you conveniently forgot that little piece of information when there was a chance of accompanying me on a case!" he shook his head and groaned. "I should never have allowed you to leave the house. If I have caused you to become worse..."

"It would be because I did not give you all the information that you needed," he said as he tried to stand. His injured leg trembled beneath him and he sank back onto the sofa with a groan of pain and frustration.

"I take it that you would like to relieve yourself," the detective remarked. He had suspected it the moment that his companion had complained of abdominal pain, but he had not wanted to ask him as if he were a small child.

He closed his eyes and nodded without meeting his gaze.

"I shall carry you," he told him with compassion before lifting him into his arms. The last thing that he wanted was to startle his friend.

"Ah," the doctor gasped suddenly, wincing as he was lifted from the sofa.

He froze. "Are you all right Watson?"

"Yes Holmes," he fidgeted slightly. "The change of position was a little painful, that is all."

He squeezed his shoulder and hastened toward the bathroom. "I expect your abdominal muscles are very fatigued from yesterday. We shall have to be particularly careful with you for a while."

His friend closed his eyes and turned his face away, telling him that he had obviously not been as subtle as he would have liked and as a result had touched a nerve.

"I know that the subject is a sensitive one old chap," he said quietly as he backed in through the bathroom doorway. "But, as a doctor, you must know the most likely reason for your being in such pain. It is not difficult for me to deduce that it was for that very reason that you did not wish to tell me, either."

He again rested a hand on his abdomen as he was set down in front of the lavatory. "You are right of course. I shall try to let you know as soon as I begin to feel uncomfortable."

"Very wise," was all that he said by way of a reply. He cleared his throat and directed his eyes to the window above the washbasin, ensuring that his companion knew perfectly well that he had no intention of invading his privacy. He squeezed the shoulder that his hand was gripping in a reassuring manner as he kept his friend steady on his feet. He disliked witnessing his current weakness and fatigue as much as the doctor hated him to see it and the knowledge that his being forced to submit to the detective's care in such a manner upset him made it all the worse. More than anything that he had ever desired, he wanted to see Watson happy and healthy again. Seeing him so dependant made his heart ache.

"I think I can manage now Holmes," his companion announced softly after a while. "Just help me to move to the basin."

He did as he was asked without a word and helped him to lean against the sink as he washed his hands. He waited patiently until the water had stopped running and then handed over a towel. "Would you like to go back to the settee now? The sitting room would be much warmer for you."

He nodded and sniffed. "You sound as if you should rest as well," he remarked, eyeing him with concern. "You are becoming congested."

"None of that Watson," he said sharply, taking the towel from his friend and hanging it back up. "I am all right for the moment and you need my support. I shall slow..." he froze and closed his eyes. Of all the moments to decide that he wanted to sneeze!

"Are you all right old boy?" he heard the man at his side ask with concern.

He nodded. It was not a wise move, for the motion seemed to add to the irritation in his nose and make it all the worse. He took a shaky breath and then pitched forward into his hand with a loud sneeze.

"Bless you!" Watson touched his arm and swayed against him slightly. "Oh Holmes, what have I done?"

"You are my first concern," he said flatly without meeting his worried gaze. "I may not sound it, but I do feel all right. If that were not the case, I am certain that I would not be able to carry you."

His friend huffed and frowned at him. "And what will happen if you become too tired and ill to move? I can barely carry myself! What good will I be to you?"

He waved the question aside with an idle flick of the wrist and moved to the basin to wash his hands. "I shall rest frequently. That should enable me to fight this illness off before it can take much of a hold. Had you told me that you were feeling unwell, it is precisely what I would have insisted that you did, as opposed to haring around London with me!"

The doctor nodded tiredly and leant against him. "I am so very sorry Holmes..."

"And what is the point of being sorry?" he snapped at him angrily. "What good does that do?"

He shook his head and looked away miserably.

Holmes deflated at this and put an arm around his friend. What right did he have to shout at him in such a manner anyway? Watson would never become angry with him for trying to apologise! "I am also sorry," he said gently. "You are quite right; I am... not quite myself today. Come now old fellow, we shall return to the living room and the warm fire."

"Don't carry me," the doctor insisted. "I shall lean on you, if you will let me, and walk. I am quite able to walk."

"You are in pain," he argued, shaking his head.

Watson sniffed and scowled at him. "And you are ailing. If you are going to insist on putting me first, you shall have to ensure that you are well enough to care for me."

He smiled at him and took his arm. "You are right, of course. Very well Doctor, I submit. But if the pain becomes too much, I will carry you; I do not like to see you in such discomfort."

His companion smiled back at him and wrapped his arm around his slender waist. "We should eat," he remarked. "You are thinner than you should be Holmes; if you lose any more weight you might not be able to fight this illness."

"Pah!" he smirked at his concerned friend. "I have come through much worse."

He sighed and shook his head wearily. "La grippe is dangerous..." he swayed for a moment as if illustrating his point.

The detective stopped and held him close to keep him from collapsing. "I promise you Watson, I shall not push myself too far. I must have a care for your sake and I am not going to let you down again," he pulled away to look into his face. "You are faint. Come along, permit me to carry you."

~SH~

They were soon sitting side by side on the sofa, sharing their blankets and drinking hot tea. Mrs. Hudson poured them each a glass of water and ensured that they were comfortable.

"What would you like for breakfast?" she asked them when the tea was finished and they were reclining in companionable silence.

Watson stifled a yawn and sniffed. "Just some toast please Mrs. Hudson. My stomach still feels a little delicate."

She cast Holmes a questioning glance when he grimaced at the words but said nothing, merely turning her attention back to the doctor. "Would you like it with any jam or marmalade?"

"Marmalade would be a welcome change," he said with a grateful smile. "But no butter, please."

"And Mr. Holmes?"

He shivered and drew closer to his companion. "The same, please. I am not very hungry," from the corner of his eye he saw Watson give him a look that seemed to be a combination of pity, concern and an apology. He turned to smile at him. "I only need to rest! I do not even feel fevered."

His friend smiled at this. "The trouble with you is that you only ever rest when you are exhausted or beginning to feel unwell," he remarked. "And even then, only after the conclusion of a case. You cannot go on like this Holmes."

"Phshaw!" he smirked at him, ignoring their housekeeper's fussing, tuts and remarks as she tidied their sitting room and then left, shutting the door behind her. "I have told you before: my work does not tire me."

He sighed and turned away, rubbing at his forehead and eyes wearily. "You know best, I suppose."

"I know me," he assured his companion, resting a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "I promise you, I feel quite all right. I am merely tired and chilled."

"That was exactly how I felt at first," Watson told him. "For the first few days, I thought it was just the case wearing me out," he pulled his handkerchief from the sleeve of his nightshirt and blew his nose before continuing. "After all, we spent a lot of our time going from one location to the next and I tend to feel the cold quite keenly since I arrived back from Afghanistan..." he paused again to give two violent sneezes and gasped, pressing a hand to his sore abdomen. "And maintaining the correct body temperature can be quite tiring," he finished with a poorly-concealed wince of pain.

Holmes squeezed his shoulder and stared into his face with concern. "Are you feeling worse?"

He shook his head and blew his nose again. "I am all right; the aches are just quite sharp when they choose to flare up."

"I am truly sorry."

He returned his handkerchief to his sleeve and met his friend's gaze with a wan smile. "Yes, I know that you are. You do not have to keep telling me."

"I do not like to see you in such pain," he told him, giving his shoulder another squeeze. "The knowledge that I could have prevented it makes it all the worse."

Watson rested his free hand on his arm. "I shall be all right as long as I do not strain myself further. The aches and pains should begin to subside before this evening."

He nodded and rested his free hand on his companion's. "I certainly hope so. You are quite sure that there is nothing else wrong?"

His friend raised his eyebrows. "I have influenza Holmes; that is what is wrong. It causes fever, fatigue, weakness, as well as the rather uncomfortable aches and cold-like symptoms. That is all that is wrong with me. Nothing more and nothing less."

"I am so very glad," he replied with a relieved smile as he patted his hand. He then turned away quickly and reached inside his pocket for his handkerchief.

"Bless you!" the doctor said after he sneezed and then pulled him closer to his side when he shivered. "You should sleep Holmes."

He nodded and sniffed. "And so I shall. But we should eat first. I shall then ensure that you will be all right while I rest."

"Holmes..."

He interrupted him hastily. "Oh no you don't! You shall allow me to care for you and agree to wake me if you have to or I shan't rest at all. Do we have an agreement?"

Watson shook his head wearily. "I do not agree in the slightest, but it appears that I have no choice but to submit. I do not want you to become as ill as I have been."

"I can assure you that I will not if you would only trust me! My constitution is much stronger than you would think."

"Very well Holmes, I trust you," he smiled at him wearily. "I am in no condition to argue."

"Indeed not," he squeezed his shoulder gently and smiled at him. He was determined to prove to him that he was still feeling all right.

When the toast arrived, Holmes ate his as if he had not had a bite to eat in days. When Mrs. Hudson said as much, he realised that it was probably not very far from the truth; he had only felt hungry when Watson had had an appetite of late, for he had been much more concerned than he would care to admit. The housekeeper fetched him some more food and he gratefully polished that off as well.

"You were hungry," Watson remarked when his hunger had finally been sated and he had pushed aside his empty plate.

He sniffed. "I was starving! You see, my dear fellow, I am perfectly all right."

The doctor smiled at him tiredly and set aside his own half-finished plate before preparing to sleep with a yawn. "All right Holmes. I am convinced."

"Splendid. Good rest then Watson. I shall wake you at lunch time."

"No. You shall ask Mrs. Hudson to wake us and sleep," he corrected him firmly. "We agreed that you would rest if I would do the same."

"Very well," he agreed with a small smile. He then played his violin for his weary companion and reapplied the cooling cloth to his brow once he was settled. This done, he left a note for Mrs. Hudson, requesting that she ensure that she wake them for lunch. With a yawn, he returned to the sofa and sank onto the seat at the doctor's side. He drew the blankets about them snugly and rested his head against the shoulder of his companion. Comfortable, warm and with a full stomach, he had no difficulty in drifting into a restful doze.


	19. Chapter 19

Lunch time arrived sooner than Holmes expected. He had thought that he would doze for a while and awake long before noon, but his weary body had clearly had ideas of its own. He opened his eyes slowly to be met by the apologetic and concerned smile of Mrs. Hudson.

"I am sorry Mr. Holmes, but you did leave a note saying that you would like me to wake you and the doctor at lunch time."

He stifled a yawn and nodded. "I did indeed. What is the time?"

"It is half past one sir. I hope that that is a reasonable hour... you didn't actually specify an exact time."

"I did not actually expect to still be sleeping at this hour," he replied with another yawn. "Obviously, I am in need of more sleep than I thought possible. Excuse me."

"Of course sir," she smiled at him. "What would you like for your lunch? Soup?"

He still felt quite full after breakfast. His body had clearly become used to missing meals while he had been tending to his ill friend. All the same, he would have to at least attempt to eat something. "Yes please. A light soup though, if you please; no cream, milk or cheese."

"Of course not! I am not sure that the doctor could stomach it sir."

He was not confident that he could either, but he kept that to himself.

"Do you think he could manage a beef broth?" she asked him. "That would do you both some good, I am sure."

"I shall try anything Mrs. Hudson. I am sure that you know what Watson and I like and dislike well enough by now; just bring us something that is easy to digest that we would both enjoy."

"Very well sir," she acknowledged. She was just turning to leave when she stopped. "Oh! I have brought you both some fresh water and sliced lemons. I thought that the doctor might have grown tired of plain water by now and I know that you prefer something with more flavour at the best of times."

He smiled at this. It was very thoughtful of her to want to add some variety to his companion's bland diet and he also appreciated that she had remembered that he did not particularly enjoy drinking water. "Thank you."

She smiled at him and left the sitting room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Holmes stretched his limbs experimentally. He was not aching; a good sign that he had managed to stave off the illness thus far. He then woke his snoring companion gently.

"What is it?" Watson asked with a tired groan as he rubbed at his eyes. "Has there been a development?"

"It is twenty five to two and Mrs. Hudson is preparing a soup for our lunch," he informed him with a small smile. "And no, there have been no new developments."

The doctor smiled back at him in a relieved manner. "You look better."

"Thank you. I feel it," he patted his shoulder. "I did tell you that I was merely fagged. It is you that I am worried about. I can see that you are still feeling dreadful."

"Perhaps you should have been a doctor," his companion remarked sleepily.

He shook his head and grimaced. "I usually have no patience for illness. It is different when you are unwell. I could not leave you to fend for yourself, at any rate."

"I did not know that you care so much about me..."

"Of course I do!" he gripped his friend's arm rather more tightly than he intended and released him hurriedly when he saw him wince. "Watson, I know that I am not always very good at professing my innermost thoughts and feelings, but I had thought that my actions should speak for themselves. You are my closest friend!"

He nodded and sniffed. "I am sorry Holmes. I did not mean..."

"You are not thinking clearly," he noted sympathetically. "That is precisely what I dislike the most about being unwell. The brain becomes so sluggish that even the most obvious of trivialities can become too much to comprehend."

He sniffed again and looked away. "And I am not terribly bright at the best of times..."

Holmes stared at him for a long moment. "What do you mean, you are not terribly bright? You are not exceptionally bright, perhaps, but very few men are!" he waited for his friend to turn back and then took his head in his careful fingers and forced him to face him again. "I do not suffer fools Watson, yet I choose to spend my time with you. Does this tell you nothing? I have no time for the most likeable of fools, so I can assure you that it is not due to your warm, friendly disposition that I enjoy your company. Though I must admit, your character does do me a great deal of good. Still, to be perfectly frank, you are not an idiot and I should like to know why you have such a poor opinion of yourself."

He shook his head tiredly. "The illness..."

"No, this is not due to the illness. Not entirely," he shook his head and wrapped an arm around his friend's shivering body. "Am I so horrible a companion that I cause you to doubt not only yourself but also my regard for you?"

"You are not horrible," he whispered tiredly.

"Well, what then? Simply thoughtless? Or unkind? I know that I can be impatient and harsh with you, but it has never been my intention to hurt you!" he turned away to cough into his hand.

The doctor shook his head again and groaned. "I don't know Holmes. I am not sure how to begin to answer that. I am tired, aching and... and I feel incredibly stupid!"

"All right my dear fellow," he patted his arm gently. "Do not vex yourself. I only want you to know that I am sorry."

"Very well," he shivered violently and pulled his handkerchief from up his sleeve and raised it to his nose, shifting slightly in his seat and crossing his legs as he did so.

Holmes squeezed his shoulder and moved closer still, pressing himself into the side of his shivering companion. "How are you feeling?" he asked him. "Is your stomach any better?"

He sneezed into the handkerchief forcefully and grimaced. "I think so."

"I do wish that you would answer me honestly," he said with frustration. "Your tone and expression contradict your words, so you had might as well simply tell me how you are."

His companion chuckled at that and then grimaced again. "It seems that I am unable to learn. My stomach is not quite as painful, but it does feel... uncomfortable. I suppose that your guessed diagnosis was quite right and some of my muscles are fatigued. La grippe can cause muscular weakness and fatigue anyway."

He nodded and squeezed his shoulder gently. "Is there anything that I can do?"

"No," he shook his head and patted his arm. "No more than you are already doing. Would you excuse me?"

The detective watched him as he attempted to stand and then jumped to his feet at his side. "Actually, I am somewhat uncomfortable myself."

Watson moaned as he put an arm around him and offered to take some of the weight off of his leg. "Surely you could wait for me to come back?"

Of course he could have, but then he would have had no excuse for escorting his friend and ensuring that no harm came to him. He had not forgotten the fear that had gripped him when he had found his friend sprawled on the floor beside the sofa, nor the many thoughts that had raced through his mind. He could have hit his head on the coffee table or caused further damage to his leg! He shook his head and stamped his feet in an impatient manner. "I am not sure that I can..."

"Oh," his companion cast him a concerned glance. "Will you be able to wait while I...?"

"Yes," he assured him quickly, shifting on his feet as if he was trying (and failing) to keep himself still. "Yes, I shall be all right. You take priority at the moment. Come now, the sooner we get there the better. Lean on me Watson."

He did as he was told without complaint and the two headed for the bathroom together.

Holmes helped his companion to take position and crossed his legs as he kept him upright, using the washbasin to steady himself. He did not want the man at his side to suspect that he had been acting or he might not have been so quick to allow him to accompany him the next time.

"Are you sure that you are all right?" the doctor asked with concern.

He nodded. "Yes," he assured him curtly. It was the truth as well. He was not even sure that he would be able to relieve himself when his turn came, for he hardly felt any discomfort at all. "Just hurry up Watson."

"Yes, of course. Sorry Holmes."

He felt his friend shift slightly beside him and directed his gaze to the window as before, giving him all the privacy that he could in such close proximity. He tried not to pay any attention to his friend, apart from ensuring that he remained on his feet.

His companion sighed quietly as he tidied himself up. "Thank you. You can go now."

They switched places so that Watson could wash his hands while he used the lavatory. The sound of the running water seemed to help somewhat.

Watson cast him a concerned glance as he moved aside to allow him to wash his hands. "You are not in any pain or discomfort, are you?"

"What?" he turned from his task to frown at him. "No, I am quite all right. Were it not for the chills, sneezing and fatigue, I would believe that I was in perfect health! Why do you ask?"

He shuffled on his feet and looked away. "For all your obvious discomfort, you did not seem to... do very much."

"For goodness sake!" he snapped at his companion. "I have not been watching you when you have needed my help!"

"No, I know," his companion replied quietly, resting a hand on his arm. "I was not watching you, either. I could not help noticing that you did not seem to be as... I mean, your body language while you were waiting for me indicated that you were in a hurry, but when you had the opportunity to go, you did not seem..." he cleared his throat awkwardly. "As a doctor, I notice these things."

"I am showing alarming symptoms, I take it?" Perhaps he should have simply insisted that he should continue to accompany him until his fever were to finally break and to blazes with the man's pride! It should have been obvious that it was not a good idea to use his dramatic abilities to persuade his friend.

His companion nodded. "You have not been drinking very much lately. You admitted as much yourself. That, along with the knowledge that la grippe is dangerous because it can lead to complications such as infections if the patient is not careful, is more than enough to cause me to become concerned when you begin to show signs of a serious infection."

Holmes turned from the washbasin to retrieve a hand towel. "Yes, all right. I get the message. I should have a care."

He sighed tiredly and shook his head. "You do realise that feeling desperate to empty your bladder and then finding that you do not in reality have to do so is the sign of a water infection, do you?"

"I do now," he replied with a grimace. "Thank you for bringing it to my attention. Is there anything else that I should know?"

"No, I do not think so. If you feel all right, we shall forget about it for now," he frowned at him. "But you should ensure that you drink regularly. I have treated water infections, Holmes, and I can assure you that they are excruciatingly painful and terribly unpleasant. You do not want to develop one."

"You have achieved the virtually impossible and managed to get through to me, I assure you. I shall have a care," he handed his companion the towel and put an arm around him. "I am sorry. I did not want to alarm or worry you, but I seem to do so with ease. I also did not mean to lose my temper with you. Truly, I am very sorry."

Watson leant against him wearily. "It is not your fault. I know that you are too concerned about me to have much thought for yourself. You have a far greater heart than your cold façade tends to permit you to let on."

He smiled and squeezed his friend's shoulder. "I find it astonishing that you of all people can think that I have a great heart," he remarked as he slowly guided him back to the sofa. "I am not nearly as kind as you are."

"You do not think so?" he asked in surprise. "Playing my favourite pieces on your violin to soothe me is not kind then?"

"Well..."

"Teaching me your methods, to the best of your ability, so that I do not feel so terribly ignorant when I assist you is not kind?"

The detective winced. "Shouting at you when you fail to comprehend something that I have tried to teach you is not kind. My lack of patience has clearly hurt you more than you have allowed me to know."

"That is not your fault!" his companion touched his arm and looked into his face before turning away to cough. He should not have spoken with such vehemence; Holmes could hear the harm that it had done to his sore throat. "You cannot be expected to have unlimited patience," he croaked. "Everyone becomes frustrated."

He shook his head and squeezed his shoulder. "Losing my patience would be acceptable if I would think a little more about what I choose to say when I do so. I know now that my reactions can hurt you and I shall try to think about my behaviour in the future. I am not a fool and I should not behave like one."

"Holmes..."

"Watson," he interrupted him solemnly, stopping to look him straight in the eye. "You are the finest man that I have ever had the good fortune to meet. You are loyal, brave, unconditionally kind and terribly warm-hearted," he shook his head. "Only a fool would treat you badly."

His friend raised his eyebrows at this. "You truly do think highly of me."

"You say that as if I should not!" he shook his head again and continued on to the sofa, half-carrying his limping companion. "I often wonder what I did to earn your companionship. Here, lie down," he said, interrupting himself as he quickly wrapped his friend in the blankets and helped him to make himself comfortable. "How is that? Would you like some water and lemon juice? You have hurt your throat; it has become dreadfully raspy."

"Yes please. Holmes..." he smiled at the detective wearily when he turned back to face him, his hand still hovering above the jug as his grey eyes stared at him quizzically. "I am also honoured that you should care so much about me."

He laughed at that. "Of course I do! You are my dearest friend! After all..." he froze and screwed his eyes shut suddenly.

"Holmes?" the doctor sat up as quickly as he was able. "Are you all right?"

He held up a long finger and turned away from both the jug and his friend to sneeze, whipping a handkerchief from his pocket quickly.

"Bless you. Oh, bless you! Do you think that you...? Bless you! Do you think that you should sit down?"

He shook his head and wiped at his nose as he turned back to face his companion. "I am quite all right. I do see what you mean about the damn sneezing being a nuisance though. I am growing tired of it already!" he sniffed, wiped his nose again and folded away the handkerchief. "I was trying to say, before we were so annoyingly interrupted, that there are not many men who would so willingly put up with me."

His companion smiled at him wearily. "There are not many men that would have put up with me, either. Not in the condition that I was in when I came here."

"Pah! Any fool could see that you had been unwell. I could also see that you had been hurt and badly. When you said that you were 'lazy', well!" he shook his head and chuckled. "I do not know how I kept a straight face."

"You saw all that at a glance?"

He smiled as he poured water into the two glasses on the table in front of him. "You know my methods. You were like a wraith, but I could see that that was not your customary build. Ergo, you had been severely ill. The way that you walked informed me that you had also been injured. You know that I also knew that you had served in Afghanistan at a glance," he sniffed again and winced slightly as a pain spread across the bridge of his nose and stretched up into his forehead.

"Are you all right?"

"An annoying headache. It is nothing serious," he rubbed at his forehead and then decided to forget the discomfort. It was nothing in comparison to his companion's many discomforts. "When you congratulated me on my success in the lab..."

"The Sherlock Holmes method of proving (or disproving, as the case may be) a stain to be (or not be) blood. It was remarkable Holmes," he coughed and rubbed at his still painful abdomen. "Of course I congratulated you!"

The detective helped him to sit up and drink some water. "I was almost certain that we would be compatible then. You confirmed it quickly enough, as well. Particularly when you mentioned that you still had your service revolver; that was good to know."

Watson almost choked on a mouthful of water and pushed the glass away to chuckle. "Oh, that was the decider, was it?"

"What? No! Of course not!" he turned his head to cough into his shoulder.

His companion patted his knee gently. "I am sorry Holmes. I should refrain from joking like that."

He coughed again and cleared his throat before turning back. He was just about to reply when the door opened and Mrs. Hudson came in with their lunch.

"Here we are," she announced cheerfully. "Potato and leek soup with freshly baked bread."

"Thank you," Holmes smiled at her gratefully. He handed the doctor one of the dishes and piece of bread before sitting down beside him, sipping at the glass of water that he had poured for himself gratefully. He was thirstier than he had realised.

Their housekeeper tidied round quietly and then left them to eat in peace.


End file.
